I Am Tired, and Stink of War
by iamtiredandstinkofwar
Summary: A Fallout-NV Fanfic like one you've never read before. Includes F!Courier, Boone, Benny, Arcade, Vuples, the King, and everyone else you love.
1. One For My Baby

Not that it was cold in Novac at night, or well anywhere in the Mojave for that matter, but I could almost feel myself shaking in my boots. I was tempted to pull the hood of my raggedy pink hoodie over myself, but honestly, I figured I'd look like even more of an awkward, spooked outsider than I already did. After busting my ass to get to a bed I could call my own, here I was, helping some jerk of a...what was he? Soldier, ex-soldier? get revenge on his dead wife.

It was less than 24 hours since I'd met Craig Boone, and he unsettled me, to put it bluntly. He spoke cryptically, more like some kind of fortune teller than a big man with a big gun. In the short span of our relationship, I had spoken with a few people about this "Carla" who apparently everyone despised, even Manny...and Manny was one of the few people in the town I'd actually gotten to like. Yet it ended up being No-Bark who gave me the most helpful advice. Figures. After all this was over, I decided I was definitely going to relate to Boone how I stepped right onto No-Bark's bear trap and ended up with nice chunks of my leg missing. No-Bark...

My hands were shoved into the hoodie's deep pockets. My right hand crushed Boone's beret, and inside that, folded up neatly, was Carla's bill of sale. That's why I was going through with this, mind you. Reading about a pregnant woman being sold like a slab of Brahmin meat infuriated me more than I can really convey in words. After hearing Jeannie May prattle on earlier this week, about how Carla probably left Boone, and then tearing this shit out of her safe...the anger sparred me to continue. Justice is my number one rule.

Justice made me nervous. The hand that wasn't clutching Boone's beret like it was my last Stimpak rose up to rap hurriedly on the motel lobby door. I didn't have to wait long. Rustling inside could be heard, and I stepped back as Jeannie May exited, locking the lobby door and turning to me.

"Well hello there dear...is there anything I can get for you? I was just about to head home. Your room okay?"

She glanced at me; I'm sure my cheeks were pale as death...well, they always were, but still. My heart was racing. You bitch, you murderer...

"What's wrong child? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

"Ma'am," I said, licking my lips, and turning my nerves into what I hoped was a genuine grimace of fear, "I think...I think there's a Legion raiding party coming. I was just out for a walk and saw..."

"Oh, no!" The Legion scared Jeannie for an entirely different reason...the woman had slave dealings with them after all. She definitely wouldn't want anyone to show up and ruin her secret. She'd be ruined. Wrecked. Lynched, probably, and she knew it. I was going to use her fear to coax her into Boone's sight, if I could. She breathed, "Have you told Boone, up in the dinosaur?"

I had been working on my reply all afternoon, while Jeannie ran the lobby and Boone slept, prepping for his night shift. I shook my head frantically. "No ma'am...I...I'm not sure if it IS the Legion and if it isn't, I don't want to bother him...I talked to him yesterday and he was really rude so..."

It was believable. For someone whose first words to me were literally, "Goddammit! Don't sneak up on me like that!" with such vehemence that I felt like pushing him out of Dinky's mouth, it wasn't hard for anyone to accept that Boone was a bit of a...douche. Someone I think most people here avoided.

"Good point," she said, accepting the bait, and pocketing her keys, turning fully to me. "Boone is a good boy, his heart's in the right place, but he's just not been very hospitable since his wife left him..."

I pressed. "I was hoping you could come take a look just to make sure. Before we wake everyone up. They're pretty far away. I don't know if Boone sees them, but I don't think he has, because I haven't heard gunshots. If it's merchants...or...or.."

Playing a timid, stupid outsider -who couldn't even tell a merchant band from a Legion raid party crossing Clark Field- suited me well. I can't tell you how that realization thrilled me. Maybe I'm just a good actress.

"Let's hurry us up and have a look. If it's the Legion, I'll know. And we can tell Mr. Boone, and wake up Manny and the others." Jeannie wrapped her shawl tightly around herself, and headed toward the field with no hesitation. She walked hurriedly, and I jogged to keep up to her. Huffing as we went along the hard rock, I tried very hard not to look behind me at Dinky the Dinosaur's big doofy smiling face. Ahead of me, Jeannie halted. We were far now, about thirty yards away from Boone, who was lurking in his comical death shack, undoubtedly watching my every move.

"Where did you see them?" she said, looking very hard into the ill-lit night, breaking my train of thought...my thoughts of Boone.

"Hang...hang on. They were...over there..." I said, pointing to a random spot. The older woman's head shot in that direction, and I withdrew something else I had in my pocket...a pair of binoculars. "Here, I saw them with this," I supplied helpfully.

She snatched the binoculars and brought them up to her sight. The angle Jeannie May was looking turned her back toward me, so she didn't even see what I did next. Exhaling slowly, butterflies fluttering around, I withdrew Boone's beret, unfolded it, seeing a blur of red in front of me, and pulled the itchy cap down over my blond hair.

He had made sure that the stranger knew he didn't trust her. He had been cynical enough to not hope for anything. Yet out in the peaceful night, she hurried across the rocks with Jeannie May. Boone recognized the stranger's platinum blond hair, her untidy locks gleaming in the faint moonlight. And the sniper's sharp eyes knew Jeannie as well as anyone.

"What the..." Boone breathed. Was this a coincidence? Did the stranger have a habit of taking old ladies out on midnight strolls right in his line of sight, or was this it? Not that Boone believed Jeannie more innocent than anyone else in this fucking town. But was he was about to taste revenge...? Although his hand was steadily resting against the trigger, his face as dark as ever, that long-dead part of Boone flared up with excitement.

The stranger spoke with the woman, but Boone was too far away to hear what was said. The older woman took a set of withdrawn binoculars, and looked out west with them, obviously enraptured for whatever the stranger had told her existed out there in the desert. Still, Boone only half-held his rifle at the ready. The tall, lean stranger withdrew something else: something red. Boone's shrewd eyes widened slightly, and then his dark brow lowered. He brought the sight upward, glaring down the familiar scope.

Now the outsider was magnified, her porcelain face stony as she put the beret on. That was all Boone needed. Some part of him, somewhere deep down, though she'd presented no evidence as of yet, trusted this woman...

He redirected his sights.

I could almost feel the sniper's cold eyes on me as I pulled his beret down. A pit was growing in my stomach, and my hands fell at my side, limply. There was nothing more for me to do.

Jeannie had seen my movement, and now paused, turning from my binoculars to look at me, confusedly. She suspiciously eyed the beret, and my probably horrified expression. "Why are you wearing-"

I have never seen a cleaner shot, nor have I ever stood so close to someone whose head just got ripped off by a .50 cal bullet. I blinked, twice, as the squishy-exploding sound rang in my ears, and Jeannie May's head literally exploded, a mere three feet away from me. Blood splashed onto my cheek and neck, and my lips pursed, nostrils flaring instinctively. The cadaver seemed suspended for a moment, then it plopped to the ground. Without inspecting it too thoroughly, I bent down and retrieved my binoculars.

Turning in the moonlight, I saw the tip of a smoking rifle disappear between two rows of sharp T-Rex teeth. Although I wasn't pleased to have her blood splashed on me, I was happy that I had helped bring justice to Boone. Adjusting the beret, and feeling better than I had in over a day, I made my way back to Dinky the Dinosaur, both nervous and excited to see his deadly inhabitant once again.

So many had fallen under his rifle, Boone was used to it. But a shiver of adrenaline ran up his back as Jeannie's body floundered. Adrenaline, and disgust. He lowered the rifle as the stranger turned toward him. She was looking directly at him, it seemed, and Boone paused, caught off-guard. Then she adjusted the beret-his beret- and began to walk back towards Novac's entrance. Although he was nowhere, nowhere near willing to admit it, Boone thought the beret looked good on her.


	2. Leaving Novac

Boone didn't want to spend the night in Novac after reading the letter the Courier had given him. He wanted to leave immediately, but she pressed the point: they needed a good night's sleep before traveling the long haul to New Vegas, and both of them were beyond exhausted. Her week in Novac had consisted of her helping seemingly everyone in town; she'd discovered the ghouls at Reppcon, the Nightkin bothering the Brahmin, and who knows what other good deeds, before completely blindsiding Boone himself with bringing him partial justice to Carla's...slavery deal.

He was surprised it wasn't Manny-his friend HATED his wife, but upon reflection Boone couldn't remember a time that Jeannie wasn't complaining about the "snobbish look" on Carla's face. These thoughts were making it increasingly difficult for him to even think about sleeping one more night in this town. Obviously the Courier was having no difficulty. Boone was sitting in her room, in a sooty chair by the window. The bright orange Novac sign gave the area an eerie glow, and silhouetted in it, the strange girl slept like a rock, tangled in the blankets.

She'd given him a key to her room when he told her he was going to pack his belongings. "Let yourself in whenever you're ready to go, but I have to sleep or I'm going to collapse," she'd said. He was stunned that this secretive, mysterious woman trusted him with such a thing, but he reminded himself of two important things: one, this was the woman who took out a facility basement full of Nightkin, and she probably hid a Rebar Club under that hoodie, and two, they were partners now.

Something felt...right...about it. Not good, because Boone never felt good. But it seemed that when she suggested they team up and get the fuck out of Novac, some subliminal force nodded at Boone that this was his next journey. Not that his journey was going to lead him anywhere but a grisly death, but that was his fault. Bitter Springs, Carla, all of it was his fault and there was nothing to do but plunge into whatever nightmare awaited.

But as he sat there, his bag packed and his rifle across his lap, Boone looked away from the peacefully snoring girl on the bed and out the window to orangey Novac. Bitter disgust crept up on him. Manny's reaction to Carla's death. The town's tight-lipped avoidance of the issue. Every night, he sat up there in that motherfucking fuck faced dinosaur, warding off Powder Gangers, Legionares, any and every mutated animal that moved as a speck on the mountains, while the good people of Novac slept in thankless silence.

Manny had skipped out on Bitter Springs. Manny didn't have a wife stolen from under his nose. The only other person Boone ever thought he could trust, was fucking useless. Unsympathetic, and useless. The more the sniper gazed out into that blaring orange atmosphere, the more and more pissed off and enraged he got. He was trying to recall Carla's face, and couldn't even bring it to form in his mind anymore. All he had were these faint memories, and they weren't worth a damn. Nothing was worth a damn anymore.

Fuck it. He'd wanted to do this for ages. Ever since he raised his rifle to the back of his wife's head. He'd just been too fucking afraid. That and he didn't have the fuel he needed. With the crushed bill of sale in his pocket, Boone was full of fuel. The longer he sat, the longer he smoldered, until Boone's insides were far more fiery than the light of the neon sign outside. A tortured mind could only resist its want for so long. Though he was a sniper, the man carried a handgun like any wise man this side of the Mojave. Now he withdrew it, the dark steel glinting in the orange Novac wash. The barrel spun in his large palm, and he raised his arm, the gun now pointing at his temple.

The only other person Boone longed to shoot in the head was the commanding officer that day in Bitter Springs. Before today, he probably would've eventually got his ass out of Dinky Fucking Dinosaur, went right up to the General, and blew his brains out, before turning the gun on himself. But seeing the amount of caps his wife and baby were sold for pressured him to take this road. Boone leaned forward in the chair, his face falling out of orange and into the shadows of the room. He closed his eyes, slowly, and then-

Something moved. Caught in his moment of tormented bliss and end-all, Boone was still programmed as a soldier, and his eyes snapped open at the noise. The pistol momentarily lowered, but he realized almost immediately that the sound he'd heard was simply the Courier, sighing wistfully in her sleep and turning over. At this angle, all he could see was one long leg, the one that wasn't covered with blankets, and the top of a red beret.

Before he could help it, Boone's thoughts flashed back to just a few hours earlier.

"I'd really like my beret back."

"But we're partners now, Boone," she teased in her almost childish way. "Don't you think it looks good on me?"

She was trying to cheer him up, trying to ease the mood created by the note she'd given him earlier.

He rolled his eyes in response.

"Fine, here," she said, not bothering to try and ease him out of his demeanor. The red beret was lifted from her golden head, and she shoved the wad of fabric into his hands. Deciding to be difficult himself, the First Recon reached into one of his many pockets and withdrew a new, freshly washed red beret. Like any other military outfit, the NCR were given several uniforms. Boone kept all of his.

As he unfolded the new beret smugly, while still holding the one she'd given him, the Courier's green eyes widened and she snatched away the beret she'd just shoved back into his hands.

"Suit yourself," Boone had said in his condescending way. "That one has blood on it."

With a look that made Boone think she was going to push him out of Dinky's mouth, the Courier pummeled the dirty beret into Boone's chest, and grabbed the clean one, jamming it on her head and sparing another glare before stomping out of the room.

She really did go after whatever it was she wanted. Even if what she wanted was her new "partner's" beret. Although he was pretty annoyed that he had to wear a dirty beret, Boone had to respect this woman's ways. He already thought that there could be none other like her in the Wasteland.

This scene, her glare, the beret exchange, played so vividly before Boone's eyes now in the dark hotel room that he paused, his jaw slack. Novac's new hero stormed into his life, throwing justice and a bloody beret into his hands, and without realizing it, he lowered the pistol.


	3. First Memory

The courier awoke with a start, the red of the campfire the first thing she saw. Reclining near her, his rifle resting on his shoulder, sat Boone. His expression was one of deep thought, however he turned his head to look down at her.

Her face was wet. The slender girl drew her long legs up, scooting on her butt into a sitting position near Boone. She curiously brushed her cheek, realizing she had cried in her sleep. Boone, wherever his thoughts were, had a more peaceful expression than he had in the few days since they'd left Novac. He glanced at the girl, noting her teary eyes and cheeks. "What's up?"

"I...I dreamed," she said triumphantly. Though they were still getting acquainted, she moved closer to him. Boone's back was against a rock, and now the Courier faced him, her shoulder leaning against the same rock. Relaxed, the sniper tilted his head back against the rock. "You were talking in your sleep."

"What did I say?" she asked curiously.

"I don't know. You were humming a song I think, most of it was mumbled. It sounded nice. I didn't want to wake you."

The Courier wiped her moist cheek again, and said slowly. "I remembered the dream."

He looked at her. It was not common for the courier to remember anything for more than a few seconds. In the few short days he had known this woman, he had gotten used to her habits. She would see or hear something and pause, waiting for the memory to load, develop in her mind. It very rarely did. This saddened the man, because he could literally see in the depths of her green eyes, her very weak grasp on whatever it was she tried to remember. Like smoke, the memories escaped her, and the light in the greens always faded to a defeated shade of grey.

"I dreamed about snow. Have you spent a lot of time in snow?"

"Nah. Never really ventured outside of the Mojave. Never seen snow in my life."

"It was...it was something I knew well. I was familiar with it. Oh, it was beautiful." Her eyes were shining again, and Boone closed his eyes as she spoke. Her words were tentative, hesitant, as though she were reviewing everything she said for her own approval. Though the memory was retained, the Courier seemed intent on describing it perfectly, to avoid losing it.

"White, everywhere. Every tiny little tree branch, every leaf, held white glitter on it. All the windows were crystallized, and it fell from the sky softly. Not like rain. It swirled around, glistening with the moonlight. The ground was a blanket, and the tree trunks were black. Everything was hushed, everything was sleepy. It was like the world closed its eyes for a minute to rest, and the sun went away. You could pick it up, but the snow would melt in your hands. It made your breath come out in wispy trails. My nose was warm, my cheeks were numb"

She pulled out something from one of her pockets suddenly. Boone's eyes popped open, his head turned toward her. "I found this in an abandoned building..." passing it to him, Boone held a glass orb in his hands. A little nature setting was imposed inside it, and as he looked curiously at the water-filled ball, the Courier put her hands over his own and shook.

White flakes arose and spun in a beautiful spiral cloud, settling on the tiny trees.

"So that's a snowglobe."

"It was...so beautiful. Wherever I was, wherever I'm from, I loved snow."

"Do you remember anything else?" Boone shook the globe again, holding it toward the dim firelight, watching the little sparkles frantically spin.

"I was just walking in the snow. I was singing a song, but I don't think I know the words to it. Or the tune, either. It was night, and I was dressed warm, just...walking, and appreciating things. Thinking about things, probably. I remember I was happy." Now her tone perked up, and the Courier shifted so that she was sitting on her haunches, hands motioning as she remembered herself. "I had these beautiful things...ear...ear muffs! They were on my ears and I wore them to keep my ears warm. They were my favorite things. I remember thinking that I wanted to go home and read a book I really liked...although I can't remember the name...I …...my house."

She stopped, and Boone paused from his shaking/watching ritual to read her face. It had fallen.

"I don't remember my house..."

"You will. It'll just take some time." He shook the globe again, desperately wondering what it would be like to walk in something like that. It was hard to imagine, but her words painted a beautiful picture.

"I do remember one other thing..." she said hesitantly, and now her excitement level had plummeted. Sitting on her butt, the Courier drew her legs up to her and encircled them with her arms, hugging herself. She leaned forward, chin resting on her knees, firelight flickering off her cheek.

"I remember that I was alone. Not just in the forest, wherever it was. There was a way about me, a state of being, that reminded me of continually being alone. No family or friends or loved ones at all."

Boone said nothing.

"I was alone, and happy. I didn't seek after anyone. I wasn't searching for anything. I didn't have anyone, or need anyone. But if I ever did, they wouldn't be there. They didn't exist."

Her cheeks were freshly moist.

"Things change," Boone said grimly. "From here on out, I'm here whenever you need me. I've got your back."

She smiled, and to break the tension, the sniper noted, "I wonder what made you come all the way to the Mojave if you lived in a place that had a lot of snow. There's snow in some of the surrounding mountains. But I'm betting you lived farther north, if you ever want to head that way, just let me know."

The Courier risked touching the bristly Boone, and tilted her head toward him, resting her temple on his shoulder. Although his back stiffened, Boone didn't note or comment on the move.

"Thank you."

"Yeah..."


	4. Having Fun With Little Jimmy

"Almost there, buddy, just hang on a little longer," the Courier breathed to the cyberdog, in a voice much kinder than the voice she used with Boone. The latter was making his way up the mountain after the two, eyes on the pink-clad woman and the animal she was taking care of. Boone had never even heard of this tiny settlement called Jacobstown, but his companion had been excited to go there once they looked it up on the map and realized it was nestled in the higher mountains outside of Vegas.

She had a penchant for wilderness, it seemed. The woman would rather be secluded, in the sanctity of nature, than spend time in any inhabited area. She seemed far lighter in step when they traversed the Wasteland. More curious, alert. Something about civilization seemed to drain her energy, make her fatigued. Not that Boone couldn't sympathize; he despised interaction for the most part. Especially in Novac. But that was what confused him; his turmoil was Bitter Springs. That, and Carla. And after Carla was gone. THAT was why he had a hard time warming up to people. He could barely stand to live with himself and all he'd done, but this woman's memories were so vague, scattered, and sparse that she had nothing to remember. Next to nothing, anyway. To forget, or even better, to have no memory...sounded like a paradise to Boone. A paradise he'd never get to experience.

"It's so beautiful up here," she said in front of him, and Boone snapped out of his thoughts. The girl didn't stop walking, because she was too worried about the very poor condition of the animal, but her head roved around the quiet mountain trail, examining the trees. "It's just...calm, relaxed." A soft smile played on her lips, and she glanced over her shoulder at the quiet Boone. "What do you think?"

"It's nice," he responded blankly. In all reality, the sniper was admiring the way the wind made her blush, made her breath fog around her face. Usually serious, she seemed lighthearted. As she smiled back at him, and though he wasn't aware, Boone gave her a very intense look back, Rex suddenly whimpered and collapsed onto the ground at their feet. Carefree look gone, the Courier dropped to her knees.

"Oh, boy, we're almost there, we're so close! Stay with me, Rex," she pleaded. Boone, a line of concern wrinkling his brow, closed the gap between them in seconds. Rex was unconscious, but the courier scooped him up, rising with the huge metal dog in her arms. Though she was strong, even she wavered with the heavy weight, and Boone extended his arms. "Let me."

"Boone, I told the King I would take care of his dog...he's my responsibility..."

"Yeah, and you're my responsibility. Look, I'm not saying you're not capable."

She stared at him for a moment with a half-angry look. Knowing the girl, she probably didn't appreciate the responsibility comment. Too independent for her own good, she had a hard time accepting any aid. Boone stood closer now, putting his arms under hers, helping her lift the dog. She was extremely tall, inches shorter than Boone, and his face was near hers as he said in a very soft, non-Boone-like voice, "Let me help you."

Perhaps something in his kind tone shocked her, or perhaps she swallowed her pride and learned to accept help when it was offered, but the Courier stepped even closer to her quiet friend, handing the dog over to him. When Rex was securely in Boone's arms, bridegroom style, she backed away, rubbing her nose on the back of her sleeve. "...Thanks..."

The trio made their way up the mountain. Jacobstown was just over the hill.

Boone stood in the hall, carefully avoiding eye contact with the Nightkin who slouched in the resort. His arms were crossed at his side as he listened without listening, to the soft hum of the doctor's voice mixed with the Courier's. They had been in this secluded little area only several minutes, and the solace of it mixed with the fact that peaceful supermutants roved around struck a chord in Boone's tiny sense of humor.

As he mulled over this irony, his companion exited the doctor's quarters. Boone turned to her expectantly.

"He can fix Rex," she said breathlessly. "We have to get him a new brain."

"A...what?"

"We have to find a brain. And I think I know just where to go. Come on."

Boone's jaw was dropped, a rare sight, and she was too busy making her way to the front door to even notice.

"Just where-"

"Old Lady Gibson. She's really -"

"We are not staying in Novac."

At this, the Courier paused and turned to look at Boone.

"I've made friends in Novac, Boone. Not everyone there was Jeannie May."

She resented his silence about Carla. She may not have pressed the points, but Boone was well aware of this. Being ex-NCR, he knew that confiding in his partners too often could lead to sadness, or betrayal. He'd seen it happen firsthand. But still, the breach in their communication and personal lives left them both with an odd, awkward void. There was nothing to be done for it, though.

Going back to Novac. Boone didn't think he'd see the place so soon after leaving. Traveling to Vegas and staying there had been quite the adventure, and for the most part, fun. He was almost, in a secret way, glad to know he was going to stop back by the place where he'd spent so much time, with the tall girl everyone idolized at his side. And now, Jeannie May was gone, so he felt at least slightly more peaceful walking around. Not that he was jumping for joy at going, but as the Courier said, she'd made friends. And a few of the townspeople liked Boone, despite his sourness.

Stepping out into the crisp mountain air once more, Boone squinted, and the female murmured, "It's just so pretty here. If only I could just...get away from it all. And come here and..."

"Get away from it all?" Though his tone was condescending, Boone was more confused than irritated. "What are you getting away from?" He couldn't get away from his past. But she didn't have a past.

The Courier ignored him, her eyes lighting up and her finger extending to a bank about thirty feet away. "Boone, look! Snow!" Darting away from him, the courier ran to the white pile, and Boone himself stopped short.

"So it is."

"We were so busy with getting Rex in here, we must not have noticed it!"

Boone, less frolicky than his friend, walked slowly over to a shaded area where the snow gathered up alongside the building. Trying to recall snow as the Courier described it in her home area, he pictured this white dust on everything. Now his back was to the girl, who had ran up to the bank. He wanted to touch the snow, see if it was cold. While advancing on the unwitting snow, Boone was suddenly hit with something. It exploded against the back of his neck, powder sailing around his face, and Boone spun around.

"What the-"

All he saw was white, streaming toward him. A second later, his vision was gone, his deep scowl hidden behind another burst of white. Boone's brow lowered and some of the white flaked off, then he made a grunting noise, scraping his face with his hand. Blinking, his cheeks freezing, his keen eyes spotted the Courier running at him full speed, hands full of snow. Never was she smiling bigger than now as she pulled her arm back.

"Don't-fuck-" Another lump was headed in his direction, and Boone ducked. The snow hit the large Nightkin behind him, who didn't even turn around.

"Oh, Little Jimmy, you and your tricks!"

Boone gave an annoyed look over his own shoulder, his face still dripping with snow, and the Courier prepared for launch again. "Come on, fight back!" she said, and threw.

He dodged, although not well, the snow slamming into his shoulder. One knee was on the ground, and the girl advanced. "What the hell are you-"

"It's called a SNOWBALL FIGHT!" This one hit him directly in the face. Boone shook his head so rapidly his beret almost fell off, and as he blinked again, getting her in his view, he realized the Courier was out of snow. Still smiling, she was running back to the bank to stock up. The tall man wiped his cheek; it was so cold. So interesting. He'd never seen anything like it. Although he wanted to appreciate it in the sniper way-from a distance-he was already down on one knee from his earlier dodge. Boone scooped up the snow.

It was cold, and moist. But he'd already learned this when it smacked him both in the back of the head and the front, and before he dug his other hand into the snow, Boone unpocketed his sunglasses. If he was going to be barraged by these "snowballs" then he was going to at least protect what part of his face he could. After his sunglasses were donned, Boone grabbed more snow, marveling at how it packed like wet sand. Following her lead, he made several snowballs, cradling them in his arms, and then stood.

She was hiding behind a tree, his perfect eyes spotting the speck of pink. Boone crossed the yard, aiming and breaking into a run to catch her off-guard. When she saw him speeding toward her, she screamed and ran, throwing a snowball that he dodged. Boone aimed, threw, missed. Dammit. The Courier ran around the yard back to Lily, hiding behind the large blue form.

"Is this young man having a snowball fight with you, Little Jimmy? That's cute, but be safe!"

How come everyone but Boone knew what snowballs were? Now the pink jacket moved through the shade, heavier brush, over by the Bighorner herd. She paused to stick her tongue out him and he threw another snowball, misjudging his own throwing ability. It soared past her head and hit one of the creatures on the horn. The animal shook its head angrily, and as the Courier snapped her head back to look at the Bighorner, Boone finally perfected his shot. A huge snowball connected with the Courier's head, and she disappeared, ducking behind another Bighorner.

"Now don't pick a fight with the herd, little boy!" Lily snarled lovingly. "Grandma is a crack shot with a snowball herself. You run along and play nice with my Little Jimmy!"

Boone shook his head. The concentration he'd had on finding the Courier was broken with the Nightkin's voice. Now the girl was gone, lost in the sea of trees to the south of the building. It was dark and shady there, filled with snow. Undaunted, Boone walked past the grazing herd and into the dark treeline. Silently, he scoped the area. Blues and blacks and the white of the snow were all that was in his vision. No red beret, no pink hoodie. Then he noticed something extraordinary; the snow left an indent on the ground. Footprints. Bootprints to be exact.

"Aha," he said resolutely, and his shrewd eyes followed their trail. Walking after the Courier's bootprints in the snow, he found himself standing at the base of a large tree. Double checking to make sure the tracks didn't continue beside it, he was momentarily dumbfounded, until a loud "Whoop!" made its way from above.

Arms and legs extended, she fell out of the tree, aiming straight for Boone. He was so...amused and bewildered by the sight of his frenzied friend that he didn't bother to move out of the way. As a result, a sudden loss of air to his windpipe hit him, and Boone choked; she had him in a headlock, sitting piggyback on his shoulders.

"Get-off!" Boone twisted. Her response was to pluck his glasses off and put them on herself. Now thrashing around, Boone used his full strength, something he hadn't done up until this point. One arm reached behind his head, the other behind his back, grabbing her hoodie and her thigh, flinging her off. As he brought the tall rag doll around, Boone forcefully dropped her in the snow. Once she was on her back, he put one knee on her stomach, straddling her and scooped up a snowball. The Courier, like a crazy person, was laughing uncontrollably, not even bothering to put up a fight.

That bullet to the head had damaged her. He grabbed the glasses back, then took large handfuls of snow and, without packing them into a bloody "snowball", rubbed the white powder all over the girl's face. There was something extremely satisfying about it, and though she was covered in snow, she was still gasping for air from laughter. Although Boone was still glaring, it was a humorous glare, and he finally paused long enough to let her shake the snow off her face. Boone sat back on his haunches, strangely comfortable with being this close, still straddling the pinned Courier.

"Oh..." she said, trying to catch her breath. "We gotta spend more time up here..."

She was looking up at the sky with a smile on her face. He was looking down at her, and just as Boone shifted to stand up and help her to her feet, something huge and heavy slammed into his back. He wildly at first thought it was a Bighorner, but the now-familiar explosion of snow flew in wisps around him, and the force knocked Boone forward. Unprepared, he buckled, flattening the Courier. From behind him, Lily piped up, "I told you, young man, to play nice with Little Jimmy!"

The Courier's shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Boone pushed himself up slightly, his elbows locked into a push-up position as he stared down at the girl.

"You're a nut."

"You had fun."

"Don't ever pull that shit on me again."

"You had fun."

"I can't believe you're dragging me back to Novac."

"You worry too much."

"I..."


	5. Meet Me at the Dinosaur

Boone awoke with a start. A scream echoed in his ears, carrying him out of his dream and into the present. The present was the Courier's motel room in Novac, where darkness lay around him like a sheet, the ever-present neon sign outside glowing eerily into the room. He'd fallen asleep? Boone hadn't intended to, taking up watch in the same sooty chair he'd raised a pistol to himself in, mulling over thoughts of this town he had a severe love-hate relationship with.

The scream echoed again, faintly, and Boone pressed his fingers to his temple. Get out of my head, he willed the memory of Bitter Springs, closing his eyes. But his senses were telling him something was dead wrong. With eyes that could adjust to the blackness quicker than most, the sniper stood, realizing that the Courier's bed was empty. A jolt of fear went through him-it was after midnight, where could she have gone? and he pivoted to the left, realizing the motel room door was slightly ajar.

"Shit," Boone said, his eyes widening. Whenever he'd slept, the Courier was awake, and vice versa. Had she gone out for a walk? Visiting the Garrets or some other family? It was too late for that. So then where? Boone bolted out the door, taking the stairs three at a time. The scream sounded again, a faint cry on the desert wind, and he dashed east, bypassing the goofy dinosaur which now, since his absence, sat empty. Why would the courier leave his side? What part of her leaving Boone in Novac made sense?

Though not his strongest sense, Boone's hearing was nonetheless more than competent, and the cries had emanated from an area to the northeast of the dinosaur, probably a hundred yards away. From sitting up in the nest so many nights, he had this territory memorized like the back of his hand. The area where the female was located was right in the middle of a sunken-in, irradiated toxic waste dump. He was a sprinter, not a distance runner, and it took him no time to cover the rocky ground, even in the darkness.

A hill separated the sniper from the dip, and now he crested it, skidding to a stop. There she was, up to her ankles in irradiated sludge, a Cazador fluttering around madly. Boone realized in his one-second scope that the Courier was unarmed. She threw her hands up in front of her face, the mutated wasp opting to sting her in the chest. It was instantaneous; the Courier fell back into the sludge pile just as Boone's perfectly aimed bullet brought down the disgusting creature. He took the hill in a jump; anyone with less balance would have toppled over headfirst into radiation mud, but Boone skidded to a stop, landing on one knee by his downed friend.

He called her name there in the moonlight, turning her over to the side. She was unconscious. A red, angry scratch on her cheek told Boone that the Cazador had stung more than once. No, this couldn't be happening. Left untreated, the venom was deadly, especially multiple stings. Why had she left the safety of the motel room? Normally tall, strong, she now looked weak and pathetic there in the muck. Boone pressed two fingers to her pale neck. A pulse, but an irregular one. Gingerly, he stooped and cupped the Courier's neck with the back of his hand. She stirred, barely, and Boone got momentarily excited by the fact that she was moving.

With no regard for his own clean uniform, Boone scooped the girl up into his arms, the same as he'd done with Rex earlier today. She was limp, unmoving, barely breathing, and though his face was a mask, alarm brimmed underneath the brown eyes. He stood, backing out of the slimy mud, and took off at a run back towards Novac.

"Well?" He was not a patient man, but as the doctor exited her tent, Boone almost rounded on her with a ferocity that would've made a less spunky woman tremble. Ada, however, was a hard-stomached doctor, and brushed off Boone's impatience. In all reality, she was one of the few people Boone liked: she hadn't even lived in Novac until after Carla was already gone, and was always friendly in her sarcastic way. Right now, Boone was far too concerned to give a shit about being friendly.

"She's got a lot of poison to work out of her system, that's for sure." The doctor shrugged. "She got stung four times. Twice in the chest, once in the arm, and once was in the face. I can only imagine how good that must've felt."

"Is she awake?"

"Barely. Don't go rushing in there, Knight in Shining Armor," Ada replied, never losing her withering tone. "She needs to rest, and she's coming down off the fever pretty rapidly."

"She say what the hell she was doing out there?"

Ada's eyes moved to the left, and she suddenly took Boone by the arm, leading him away from the group of mercenaries that seemed to follow her around. "Just between you and me? I'm going to be blunt with you. The woman had a bullet in her head, and she's a walking time bomb as far as mental patients go. She was sleepwalking. I assume you've not noticed it before?"

"No..." The Courier was a fitful sleeper, once even punching him in the mouth in her sleep, or singing or talking or laughing, but...

"I'm not a head doctor, and so I'm not the person to talk to you about this. But she's a victim of severe trauma plus god-knows-what kind of scrambley eggs she's got going on up in there. Sleepwalking isn't uncommon with mentally unstable people, especially for ones who have spent a lot of time in a vault. Something about the confined quarters just seems to make people want to get up and walk around. Anyway... you'd better keep an eye on her, this could happen again. And you might not be lucky enough to find her next time."

"Thank you for your help," Boone said, preparing to withdraw caps from his uniform's pocket. Ada waved him away.

"That girl's saved all our asses several times since coming here. She's someone I don't mind keeping alive. Just be aware. Time bomb. Also, the venom is going to make her nauseated for another few days, so take it slow. I pumped her full of antivenom, but didn't have enough time to prevent the blindness."

"The WHAT?"

"Relax, champ. It's temporary. Happens with most Cazador stings, if only for a minute or two. As much venom went in that kid, may be a day or two at most. She'll be able to see light and shades, everything will just be a big blur. On top of that, due to an increased heart rate, expect her to be a little on edge. Not like someone who got shot in the face is ever NOT going to be a little on edge, but there you go."

"Can I at least take her back to our room?"

"Boy, you don't waste any time, do you?" Ada said with a smirk. Boone frowned, wilting any flowers that had thought of springing up nearby.

"Her room is a much better place for her to sleep than on a filthy mat outside," Boone said through his teeth.

Ada shrugged. "She's your gal." Turning back to the tent, Ada opened the flap, motioning to the Courier. "Your valet has arrived. Can you walk?"

There was a stirring from inside, and a mumbled "yes", before Ada disappeared inside the tent to help the other woman up. Nervously, Boone stood outside. Temporary blindness...he wasn't sure how to feel at that. Thankful, perhaps, that it wasn't more severe. Stunned that she had came so close to death. Even more stunned that he, someone who had caused more death than he'd care to admit, …...saved her life.

Ada exited, leading the Courier by the arm. The latter made Boone look away momentarily; her hoodie was off. To better clean the wounds, she was topless except for a series of bandages that wrapped tightly around her torso, ending just before her naval. Her left arm was in a sling, also wrapped in a bandage. Her right arm was extended, held at the elbow and the wrist by Ada.

"Here he is, our hero of the day," the latter quipped, and Boone stepped forward.

The Courier reached out unsteadily, found his shoulder, and leaned to him.

"You okay, bombshell? Nauseated? Sit down if you start feeling too dizzy," Ada snapped, and the Courier nodded, smiling. "Thank you."

Then she turned to Boone, still clinging to him. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't worry about it," he stopped her. "Let's get you to bed."

"I'm not sle-"

"Come on."

Ada winked at him, then turned away from the couple.

Boone could now stare at his companion without fear that she would look back, annoyed. It made him feel even more awkward that she was barely dressed from the waist up, but the unnerving part of it all was her face. Being blind, she didn't move her eyes or head at all, instead kept her chin pointing upward, her eyes wide, as though at any minute she was going to see something wondrous. And she clung to the ex-NCR in a way she never had before.

Boone slowly walked her back to the motel, where she rather defeatedly argued that she wasn't tired at all. Watching her barely make her way around the room without bumping into the bed or nightstand would've been funny to Boone any other day, as the girl thought she was more hardass than anyone on earth, but knowing that she couldn't see only made him feel sorry for her. After several minutes of digging through her bags, looking for something to wear, and doing it one-handed, the Courier gave up.

"Dammit. I don't want to be cooped up here anymore. It's making me crazy. Manny told me earlier that I could wake him up if I wanted to come chat after you were asleep." Not being able to see Boone's glare, the girl explained anyway while blindly picking up strewn clothes and stuffing them back into her bag, "He knew you wouldn't want to see him. But he was on duty when I went up to say hello."

"You're telling me you want to go visit Manny, at one in the morning, without a shirt, while being blinded?"

"I'm an opportunist, unlike you," she shot back.

Manny's room, directly under theirs, was the place Boone had avoided all day. Wrestling with himself for a moment, he finally spat, "Well, if you go down there, I'm not coming with you."

"I think I can manage a flight of stairs blinded, it's not like it requires any effort. There's a rail and everything."

"Fine. Have fun."

"Oh, I will. Manny's a riot, you should see him dance."

Deciding to forget the shirt, the Courier half stormed, half-bumped into things out of the room. The door-slam was very effective, and Boone sat down forcefully on the couch, listening to her footfalls outside on the metal rungs. The walls were thin, and as he sat stony-eyed in the darkness, Boone heard the door open, and Manny's laugh as he greeted the girl. Her voice picked up immediately, her tone entirely different than it was with Boone.

As they chatted, their voices rising upward to Boone, he suddenly got very sad. Usually anger was the emotion that overwhelmed him, or regret, but being back in Novac really fucked with his emotional wiring. He considered going back to his house, the home he shared with Carla. Her things were there, her clothes, her keepsakes. Once she was taken, Boone immediately got a room from Jeannie May, the thought of spending time alone in there too hard for him to bear.

But then, what was the use of going back in there? He was already extremely upset, and seeing his dead wife's little niche of the desert was just going to make him more distraught. He was attached to her...the memory of her.

Suddenly the Courier seemed right. This room was suffocating. The laughing voice of Manny and the fact that his radio was turned high, filtering through the floorboards, didn't help. He was probably down there dancing like an idiot with the blond. Boone stood, almost stomping out of the room, slamming the door just as the Courier had done, and descended the stairs. He couldn't go to his house, wouldn't even set foot in it. Instead, he headed for the one secluded place where he'd always had plenty of time to think before: Dinky.

Hours later and Boone still stood, looking out on the wasteland through the eyes of a T-Rex victim. Though lost entirely in thought, one part of him still listened and watched for any sign of the Courier. If she left the sanctity of the sleeping town again, he would know. But, as the doctor had pointed out, due to her increased heart rate she had been nothing but awake. This left the headstrong courier to be merry, and Boone to keep his distance even more so than normal.

Coming back to Novac reminded him how glad he was to be rid of it. How his burden had lifted, at least somewhat, when the golden-haired fighter swept him up and carried him away. How he and the Courier both felt that there was something more to life while they networked their way to Vegas, shared plans of helping the NCR, intended to help defend Hoover Dam when the time came. How just hours earlier, he had actually played in the snow with her (and the lunatic Nightkin.) There was a spot of hope somewhere, somewhere deep in this story for Boone, but he just couldn't shake off everything and grasp onto that tiny spot of hope. It was like drowning, only far more slowly.

He didn't want to die, not anymore. He knew he would, and he could only hope that when he did, it would be amid a sea of red that he would hopefully mow down considerably before they took him. Boone had by no means found his purpose for living yet. It was more like, he had realized that some things were better than death. That's why he stuck by the sometimes difficult girl, dubbed a "time-bomb" by Ada. If he was drowning, then she was the one making him gasp for air, making him want to breathe again, regardless of the fact that he couldn't.

It was getting close to 3am. He was tired. But he couldn't sleep until he was sure that the Courier was safe in bed, in a LOCKED motel room. Maybe he wouldn't even sleep then. Boone would've rather swam in an irradiated swimming pool and risk ghoulishness than knock on Manny's door and try to get the woman to come to bed. Still...he did feel respon-

Someone was ascending the stairs in the dinosaur. Boone abruptly turned, looking into the darkness, and his honed ears picked up the unsteady steps. Whoever was coming up was walking slowly, stumbling, and not bothering to be quiet. It was either a drunk Manny or a blind Courier, and he faced the door as it slowly swung open. The latter entered, awkwardly and sadly reaching her hands out in front of her in a sweep to find the wall, and close the door behind her. Once she'd done that, she leaned against the door, looking not at Boone and into that faraway place only the blind have access to.

Boone didn't speak; truth to tell, he was startled to see her here, still without a shirt on, and while wrapped up in his own misery, thinking of her, it was difficult to know what to say. He never knew what to say, had never known what to say. She wasn't aware he was even in here; Boone had tensed up at seeing her, and now not even a breath could be heard inside the dinosaur's mouth.

Standing near the edge of the platform, where he used to snipe, Boone didn't move as the Courier stepped forward as though on the edge of a great precipice. Her hand, the one that wasn't in a sling, was held out in front of her. Jerkily, she moved toward him, entirely helpless, and the outstretched hand touched Boone's shoulder.

He still didn't move, a wretched look on his his face, one she couldn't see, but now her worried face lighted up slightly. "...Boone?..." The hand moved from his shoulder, to his neck, and finally to his cheek, where she used her fingertips to brush his cheekbone, the edge of his beret, his eyebrow. Boone closed his eyes, feeling blinded himself. So long in torment without the slightest physical interaction, the harmless touch-to-identify was almost more than he could bear. He opened his eyes to study her again.

Apparently she recognized something in his taught brow and her eyebrows raised hopefully. "It is you. I thought I might find you up here." Her hand wasn't straying from his face, and without the sight to indicate to her that she was closer than she ever had been before, the Courier stepped up to Boone. "You're sad," she said in a very heartbroken voice. "I never saw it this much before, but you're ...sad."

Boone still had no idea what to say. He stood rigid as steel, hoping she would talk more.

Instead, she moved even closer, her mouth parting slightly at apparently realizing whatever it was she realized. One-handedly, her thumb rose over his eyebrow, then back down the side of his face, over his lips. Perhaps the blindness made her produce tears, or perhaps Boone's face, whatever part of it made her so sad, was causing her to become so misty-eyed. Either way, the girl's greens brimmed with water and widened impossibly farther. Boone closed his eyes again, this time holding them shut.

Now the Courier's hand slid from Boone's face to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to her. She lowered her head, not that she could stare at him, or he her as his eyes were closed, but the blond brought her own forehead to Boone's collarbone even as she pushed him by the back of the neck to her. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Boone felt her breath, as well as the splash of a tear, and she whispered, "I'm sorry about everything."

Now his eyes popped open, and Boone lowered his own head, so that his cheek touched her hair. Slowly he extended his arms, in the motion that would leave him in an embrace with her. Mid-movement though, the sniper froze in place, his fingers curling into fists, then flexing again. Although she was pressed to him, he couldn't hug her. He tried, moving his arms toward her, but stopped short.

She didn't appear to notice Boone wrestling with his own inability to embrace her, but after a few moments she did step back, removing her hand from the back of his neck and turning away, once again struggling to find the door. He was still frozen in place. But for once, Boone didn't turn away as well, watching after the Courier even as she exited, as her uncertain footsteps sounded faintly outside the nest.


	6. Ringadingding, baby! Part I

My memory before Goodsprings was as useless as a bloatfly. I had these phases of "almost-remembering" and some things trigger them, or I'd dream about them. It's like something on the tip of your tongue that you just can't spit out. That was me, on a constant nagging basis. You can see why discovering my past wasn't really my priority. If I tried, I'd go insane. Instead, I focused on the future, and the future seemed to be in peril at the moment. Not just for me, but for the entire Mojave.

There's a lost art, I think, of following one's gut. These days, everyone around me was so intent on their troubles, their problems, and thinking out ways to fix everything for themselves, that they didn't really listen to that inner voice. With a slate wiped clean by that bullet, nothing holding me into my own dark thoughts, I think I had a lot more freedom and ability to go where the road takes me. I don't mean to sound like an aimless wanderer, but you just get these feelings, know what I mean?

I knew I could have stayed in Goodsprings. But that feeling pulled me out of the sleepy little town and out into the desert. I had the same feeling when I headed up to the Repconn factory for Manny, back in Novac. The feeling that something good would come, if I stepped into that hellhole. And though it almost killed me, I relish that experience. I'll have to tell you about it in detail, some other day. I got that same feeling, that "this...this is it" feeling, when I met Boone. Helped him even though I thought the ass wouldn't even say thank you.

Lurking behind all these instinctive feelings, though, was one major feeling. Go to Vegas, it said. I was pretty sure that I'd never been to the city before my exploding cranium incident, but I could have been mistaken. What you look for, you'll find in Vegas, the voice said. What was I looking for? A companion, a lover, family, money, what? What did I want? I don't think it was any of the above. I just want justice. For myself, I guess. But I don't know how to describe it other than knowing whatever it is I'm looking for, is here in Vegas.

The stares Boone and I got when we walked onto the strip yesterday, and even before, when we hit Freeside, were to be expected. This gossip of the "risen from the dead courier" carried miles, and I got every reaction from gasps or horror, to people shaking my hand and wanting my autograph. Boone tolerated it well, as far as Boone tolerating things goes. (Not far.) A few shouts from random people on the Strip urged me to go get Benny. "Get 'em, the sleaze! He did you wrong!" I did get a few ugly glares, mostly from girls I figured knew Benny a little more intimately. Boone and I couldn't even have a drink in the Atomic Wrangler without a few Freesiders lurking up to us and giving me advice on how to corner Benny, and what his weaknesses were, and how he was planning on taking over the Strip.

How did I feel? Hard to say. My scant memory did allow me to recall that night in the cemetery. The most vivid recollection was Benny telling me to look at him. To me, an odd request. I didn't beseech the ghouls I blew away to look me in the eye. What was I to this guy, that he wanted that conviction? It didn't make me respect him, it only made me curious as to his methods. I wanted to find him, and part of me wanted to shoot him in the head, for sure. I am a creature of words though; to off the Tops manager and not get any explanation, or resolution, wasn't really in my nature.

I didn't talk to Boone about it. He wouldn't understand, that's for sure. He didn't even know much about Benny from the start, and although he may have been curious, I didn't feel like divulging. At the Wrangler, walking on the strip, anytime Benny's name was mentioned, my sniper's usual scowl turned into a deeper-set scowl. After leaving Novac, I had offhandedly asked Boone if the name meant anything to him. A snide, clipped "no" was his answer, and I shrugged it off. Now he and I made our way onto the elevator of the Lucky 38, and he finally turned to me.

"So just who is this Benny? He sounds like a real piece of work." Boone's voice had less hostility in it than per the usual, something that was happening slightly more frequently. It was hard to think that he was warming up to me. It made me smile. The question, however... I didn't want to answer. There's nothing quite like riding an elevator with a sniper glaring at you in the darkness, to force you to spit something out, and so I replied, "I... Benny helped me get famous."

"What'd he do exactly?" Now Boone's shrewd look and tone were back full force. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted. Half of me knew I owed it to my companion to tell him the story...well, what bits and pieces I remembered, anyway. The other half didn't want to bring it up. It was asking a lot from me, especially since Boone's entire existence was something he never wanted brought up. Other than my recent stint as a celebrity, I had no biography. It was a bit of a tender spot. I'm not as abrasive as Boone, or as cranky, but I found myself saying anyway, "Don't worry about it."

I avoided his eyes on the painfully long elevator ride. Boone knew I had been shot, knew me as the "Risen from her grave" courier that everyone else knew me as. What Boone didn't know was the name of my murderer. It said a lot about Boone that I told Manny the entire story, yet not a peep of it reached the latter's ears. The man loathed everyone in Novac. If Manny had even tried to gossip, a part of me felt that Boone would shut him up so fast Manny's head would spin. If Boone doesn't want to hear you, he won't, and that's that.

"Fine," he replied bitterly to my comment, as we both exited the lift into the presidential suite, my -at least for the moment- home. I dropped my hands at my sides, impressed and disgusted with Boone's audacity. Not a fight-starter, I was nonetheless angry that he felt entitled to use that condescending tone with me, then snap whenever I harmlessly asked about his past. He walked down the red-carpeted hallway, storming toward the guest bedroom, and I threw him a look of death (which he didn't see, as his back was to me) and angrily slammed my machete into the smooth wood of the end table. The noise made the tall man pivot, and his face was murderous.

"What's your problem?"

With an equally murderous expression, and without a word, I stormed into the master bedroom, pulling open one of the wardrobes and fishing through the outdated, pre-War clothes. Earlier, while inspecting the suite, I had seen a nice looking dress that looked to fit in all the right places. Yanking it out of the drawer, I made my way back to the door where Boone stood out in the hall, his temple twitching. I wasn't Manny Vargas, and I wasn't afraid to snap back at Boone when he pulled his bitch attitude. But I had no witty comments, because his smoldering look caught me off-guard. So I just slammed the door in his face.

The door swung open, finally, and Boone rose sharply from the hallway couch. He was going to open his mouth and had at least ten different things planned to say, but his voice stuck when he saw the Courier. Her blond hair was down, her face was fresher (although the glare on it hadn't changed) and instead of the pink hoodie and sweats, she donned a true New Vegas style black dress with black heels. Without speaking, she marched across the hallway and pulled the machete from its resting place on the table.

"Just...and...where do you think you're going?" Boone really had no other words.

"My guess would be a casino, since we're in Vegas," she snarled. Taking the machete back into the room, she locked it in a weapon chest. When she re-emerged in the hall, Boone was there. Though they were admittedly furious with each other, he didn't think that venturing into the casinos at night was a good idea, even for this woman who could obviously hold her own. He may have wanted to throw her out the window, but Boone was loyal. As he opened his mouth to voice that visiting a casino alone was out of the question, the elevator doors slid open.

"Victor!" The courier said a bit snappily, turning from Boone to glare at the robot.

"Well pardner, didn't mean to interrupt!" His twangy voice made Boone want to put a bullet between his stupid cartooney eyes, and both humans now faced the hunk of metal with an irritated look. "The bossman upstairs is wonderin' why you haven't dropped in yet! I think he really nee-"

"Of course, I'll pay him a visit first thing in the morning. I'm sure Mr. House is busy sleeping at this time of night."

It was 9pm. Boone's eyebrows raised momentarily at the Courier's sarcasm.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she said, sidestepping Boone and Victor in one move, "I am going to go blow some caps."

"You-"

"Don't wait up," she hissed, disappearing into the elevator, leaving Boone alone with the awkward robot.

Through the sea of well-dressed gamblers, I saw the familiar checkered jacket, and my heart skipped a beat. After all this searching and wandering, there he was. Benny. Cautiously, I slid past the other coats and dresses, my eyes locked on him. A dim memory of a hill on the outskirts of Vegas, Benny illuminated by campfire, entered my brain. It was one of those half-memories I get sometimes, sparred by seeing him now.

He had seen me. Making no effort to mask his surprise, Benny's jaw dropped. With Boone being the only other male I was ever around, seeing the change in expression was refreshing. Boldly, I stepped up to him. Benny backed away. "What. In the Goddamn."

"Benny, you old dog," I responded, extending my hand. A few of the patrons looked over, unsettled by Benny's reaction to me. I didn't really want a fight here in the casino-for god's sake, I had to turn in everything but my hidden pistol when I came in, and these Chairmen were packing heat- and so with a glare, I again offered my hand. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

Flabbergasted, seeming a little charmed, Benny shook my hand. Awkwardly, he piped, "Heya...baby, we're keepin' this in the groove, yeah?" he looked upset, and a bit too nervous, so my pointed my stare told him to tone it down. Glancing at a Chairman, Benny put his hands on my shoulders and steered me aside. People at the card tables were still watching, and as he rubbed my bare arms, Benny quipped, "I ain't seen you in...awhile, toots. You're lookin' fresher than a barrel of roses, you are."

"You're not looking so bad yourself." Dammit. Instead of detracting attention as I'd hoped, Benny's possible new score was drawing even more eyes. Wasn't he a player who continually ran women up to his suite? He sure seemed the type. And judging by the scowls some of the female patrons were throwing my way, they seemed to think so as well. Wondering if I had been an actress before Checkered jacket tore my head open, I hooked a finger and pulled his tie with it, drawing him closer. "Come closer, let me get a good look at you."

"Baby, baby!" Benny's eyes were huge. He jerked forward, until our faces were mere inches apart. Speaking much lower, so that the spectators could hear nothing more than a mutter, he grinned and said in a wavering voice, "You uh...you got anything on under that black dress, sugar? It's so tight I don't see how ya could, but I ain't no fan of gettin' blasted in my own casino."

"Then I suggest we go somewhere more private." Benny had intense eyes, and not just because he looked frightened as a cornered sewer rat. I hadn't trekked halfway across the fucking desert to waste someone, only to have their twenty henchmen come after me with fully automatic rifles.

His hands were still on my shoulders, and Benny turned, looking at the audience of casino goers. Throwing a half-smile, then winking, he smoothly turned, so that we were headed to the elevator. One arm moved across my back to my opposite arm, pulling me close. The other hand came down to my wrist, holding it in a faux-tender way, but likely there for his own security. Benny no doubt expected me to pull a gun on him momentarily.

"Did that shot scramble your egg, sister, or are you serious right now? You always been a crazy broad?"

We were so insanely close, I had a hard time thinking straight. Miles upon miles of traveling alone...then miles upon miles of traveling with someone who had a personal bubble of twelve feet, did not prepare me for this. A natural blush rose in my cheeks, and I finally turned my head to look at Benny. His eyebrows were raised expectantly, and the sensible part of me that was still able to think voiced, "Girls like bad boys, Benny. You've been awful. Call me crazy."

"You are crazy," Benny countered, his eyes widening even further. He pulled me closer, hitting the elevator button. It dinged, and a door slid open. With one final glance to the chairmen, his only body guards, and the curious onlookers, Benny led me into the elevator. When it closed, he pulled away, keeping his hands on my waist. "Fucking crazy. Seriously? I don't even know what to call you, baby. This is not happening right now."

"It doesn't have to," I replied, stepping closer. "But I think we both want it to."

Benny laughed, and it was a real laugh. Not a fake, nervous one like the ones he'd used downstairs. "How can this be? This ain't forgiveness, pussycat. This is somethin' else."

It was. What was I thinking? Luring him on for the sake of the casino not watching our exchange was one thing, but I found myself holding onto that checkered jacket just as tightly as he held onto my waist. For the moment, I wasn't a fighting beast in the wasteland. I was a pretty girl in a black dress, being held by a ruthless gentleman. His laugh was hearty. It made me smile. I didn't smile often. Maybe more often than Boone, but...

"All kindsa wrong, all kinds, but so be it. I ain't about to turn you down when you're lookin' this good. And you got a lotta guts, admirable lady quality. We can catch up on what happened later. Right now it's about bedding time, whaddya think?"

"I think that sounds fabulous."

Benny stared down at me, a quizzical look on his face, as though he were doing some quick thinking. Then, to my surprise, he leaned in and kissed me. My shoulders rose up in surprise, but I found my hands moving up from the jacket to sit in his jet-black hair. Benny's expert lips lingered another moment, then he pulled back, the biggest childish grin ever plastered on his face. "Ring a ding ding, baby!" he said triumphantly.

The elevator dinged, as if in sarcastic answer. Stupefied at myself and this character, I said nothing. Benny pointed out the door. "That's our signal, dollface. To the bedroom, baby!"


	7. Ringadingding, baby! Part II

There probably wasn't a more cliche image in all of Vegas history; late at night, a tall svelte woman in a curve-hugging dress ran in heels back to the door of her apartment; hair disheveled, makeup smeared, pale cheeks flushed. But there you go; for once I wasn't the grimy hardass courier. It was dark enough that the people who saw me go running up the stairs to the Lucky 38 were people I didn't give a shit about, strangers who gave me startled looks as I streaked across the pavement and then up the glowing, flashy steps. Victor was outside, and barely got a "Well hidey-" before I threw open the door and crossed the casino main floor.

The elevator ride provided solace, because I was finally alone. I was still crying silently, my forehead against the elevator wall. It wasn't so much what happened at the Tops, it was what didn't happen. Benny had asked me to hold him while he slept. Laying in his bed with him, he hadn't tried to assassinate me, he had just thrown himself over me, head nestled in my chest, and snored peacefully. Before he passed out, his last words were, "Real sorry about Goodsprings, kid."

After he was out, I had shimmied out of bed, gotten dressed, and snooped in his apartment. I wanted answers before I got my justice, and that feeling that led me here told me I was on the right track. But I'd gotten more than I bargained for. Notes, letters, and a really strange Securitron in the back closet told me all I needed to know about Benny. His plans to take over the strip. Kill Mr. House, the gracious host who strangely gave me my entire suite and who, according to Victor, was dying to meet me. Benny's own struggles and triumphs. The Platinum Chip. I wasn't 100% sure what it did, but Benny knew it was the key to New Vegas. Apparently the too-helpful Securitron knew that as well.

Things had gotten bigger than personal justice. I had closed the door to Yes Man's back room, head spinning with the treasure trove of new information I received, and walked through the darkness back to Benny. He couldn't be allowed to execute his plan. No one man should have the kind of power that he had. If I killed him, fair would be fair, Benny seemed to know this. Justice would be served, and New Vegas would be spared the ruthless dominion of someone like Benny. And there in the lamplight, I withdrew the pistol I'd hidden when I walked in the Tops. I held it to Benny's head; he was sleeping, oblivious. Touseled black hair against the pillow, an easygoing smile on his face.

I had put the pistol up to Benny's temple. It was a new gun, unfamiliar; Freeside's Mick and Ralph's had sold it to me earlier today. The metal touched the forehead of the man who shot me in the head, and he didn't stir. Mercy. The voice was barely audible. I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy killing, and I had gotten very good at it these past few weeks. But this was unsporting, assassination, it...was completely justified. My breathing grew ragged and as I pressed the small gun forward, I realized I didn't know what to do. That feeling that led me everywhere was suddenly gone; the voices disappeared. Mercy. Justice. Mercy. Justice.

I reminded myself of what I'd told Yes Man with conviction, while standing over Benny. No one man should ever have that kind of power. Maybe this kill wouldn't be sporting, but it was something Benny had coming to him. He regretted shooting me, but he did it. I would regret shooting him, but I would do it.

I squeezed the trigger.

My eyes widened. Other than a measly "click", the gun did nothing. It had jammed.

My hand went slack, the gun fell to my side. Benny rolled over in his sleep, turning away from me.

Maybe the voice wasn't there telling me what to do, but it seemed some force was at work. That's when I fled the Tops.

And now I exited the elevator, eager to get to my own master bedroom. It was nearing 3 in the morning. As I crossed the threshold of the suite, the sight of Boone exiting the kitchen made me jump.

"Win any caps?"

"I...what?" I was still crying, big fat tears rolling down my cheeks, and Boone finally walked out of the shadow of the other room. He stopped short at the sight of me, and gave me the up-down look.

"What happened to you?" There was no malice in his voice, just concern. It was this tiny bit of effort to feel on Boone's part that sent my female spark into overdrive; I burst into tears. Boone, who was holding a Sunset sarsaparilla, put the bottle down and approached me tentatively.

"Are you okay?" his voice was closed, guarded, but sincere. I wanted more than anything to just sort of headbutt his chest and cry like a baby on it, but I knew that would make Boone feel far more awkward than he already did. Instead, I nodded amid the tears, and made for the Master bedroom, not looking back at the ex-sniper as I once again closed the door on him.

The gears were moving forward. Tonight I would lay in a black dress and cry because I didn't understand the complexity of everything that had been overwhelmingly dumped on me. Tomorrow I would wake up, visit Mr. House, and make more progress toward saving New Vegas. Tomorrow, I would stroll the Strip with Boone, our rifles slung across our backs, gaining stares and fame, and we would have a nice long talk over drinks about exactly who Benny was and why, although I was drawn to Benny for some absurd reason, he had to go.

"Mornin, pardners." Victor was in the hallway when Boone and I exited our rooms, and the latter scowled at the cowboy robot. I grimaced.

"You feeling better?" Boone said, ignoring the robot and coming toward me.

"I..." It was very early morning, and Boone hadn't dressed in his bulky uniform. He wore his beret as usual, but was dressed only in an undershirt and shorts. Maybe sleeping with Benny had stirred my hormones up beyond belief, but I couldn't talk because I was too busy admiring my companion's wide shoulders and narrow waist. His high cheekbones were great, too.

Boone's expression quickly turned to annoyance. "Are you okay?" he repeated, a little less kindly. I snapped out of it, blinking and looking away. Although I wasn't looking at him anymore, his shrewd eyes were burning a hole in my skull.

"You got a visitor downstairs, pardner," Victor piped up cheerfully. "Sent me to come and get ya. Said you needed to come alone."

Benny? No. How could he know where I was? But it had to be Benny. My heart immediately went back up into flutter territory, where it had lingered moments earlier upon examination of Boone's physique.

"Sounds like a trap to me." Boone stated. I turned toward him, wondering if he'd been reading my thoughts. If so, boy, that was going to be embarrassing.

"Er...what?"

"I said," he repeated impatiently, "it sounds like a trap. Someone wants you to go downstairs alone? I'd better come with you."

"No, it's okay. Let me go down. If I'm not back up in five minutes, you can come down. I think I know who it is, and I have a score to settle with him anyway."

"If that's what you think." Boone's eyes narrowed.

"Thank you," I said quietly, not for waiting, but for his loyalty and want to protect. As I walked toward the elevator I passed him and squeezed his shoulder. He wasn't a man keen on physical contact, (did I mention his 12 feet bubble) but Boone didn't flinch at the reassurance.

Once on the elevator, my thoughts moved back to Benny. I was ready to do this and do it right. Though Boone had just awoken, I'd already been awake, gotten dressed, brushed and tied back my hair, donned the First Recon beret, and tucked every spare weapon I could into every holster and nook my outfit allowed for. Several people knew where I was staying, but had no business with me. Nor would they request I come alone. Benny didn't want to kill me; if he did, he would've done it last night when he had plenty of chances. I was giddy, and confused, but not afraid.

The thick steel elevator doors opened, and I crossed through the empty, spooky casino to the entrance. Outside the door stood...not Benny.

Nipton had taught me who the Legion was and what they would do. Yet it was only one lone Legionaire who hid in the shadows under the sanctuary of my casino's overhang. I wanted Boone, immediately. Freezing on the spot, my expression ran from expectant to hostile. The Legionaire didn't seem to notice or care.

"What do you want," I said in a closed, hesitant voice. The man smiled cruelly.

Boone liked to be alone, and he damn sure would've preferred it to standing here with this fucking idiot machine. The only alternative he found acceptable was the Courier; not clingy, not whiny, and a formidable companion, he preferred her company. Three minutes. Boone toyed with the idea of asking retard machine who was outside waiting to talk to his sole companion, but he figured it was best to stay out of it. For another two minutes.

He paced, and the elevator doors suddenly wooshed open. Spinning on his heel, Boone stepped toward the girl. Something was wrong; her usually amiable expression was gone. Her face was instead blank, her complexion slate. She held something in her hand, palm up, as though it'd been frozen that way.

"What?" Boone asked, and looked at her extended hand. Something, some sort of medallion, was nestled in her palm. He scooped it up. Boone squinted. "What the hell does this say?"

She gulped. "You can't read it?"

"I have sniper's eyes," he responded. This seemed to catch her attention, because she blinked.

"What?"

More defensively than needed, he replied, "I can't see things that are close up."

She didn't respond, although he was already bristled for a comment about his poor close-range vision. Boone turned the medallion over in the warm, low lighting of the suite, and saw the Bull on it.

"My God," he said in a low voice, and then his head snapped back to the courier. "Where did you get this?"

In a tiny, very non-courier-like voice, she responded, eyes wide.

"They have Benny."


	8. Mr House's Gift

"I'm surprised you're so very interested in my story. At this point, most people would be focused only on regaining the Platinum chip, and the monetary reward. I can understand, as I am a bit of an aficionado for pre-war information myself, but that was because I lived during the time period. Must we tarry over these things, when I've given you very clear instructions?"

Mr. House had a charming voice, just as the ghoul at the Old Mormon Fort had mentioned. Yet his half-condescending tone really irked me. Though he wasn't up-front with it, I knew the man...er, computer? whatever he was, really found himself above me. Just an hour earlier, he'd explained the situation, Benny, everything to me, requesting I go after Benny and get the package I was paid to deliver.

But I couldn't help it. A curious person and someone who was mystified with pre-War memorabilia, and here I was talking to yet another person who had lived through the Great War. I had been bugging Mr. House for the past five minutes, pressing him for information on his past. And to my bewilderment, he humored me, recalling how he staved the warheads away from New Vegas. Or apparently as it had been called in those days, "Las Vegas."

"I guess not," I said sardonically. "But I'd love to hear more, if you ever feel like sharing."

My tone was detached enough that Mr. House saw my disappointment at not hearing more. He seemed to be an entertainer and delight in sharing every bit of information he could (at least, the information that made him out to be a hero, and let's be honest, as far as Vegas went, he really was) so he made a thoughtful "Hmmph" noise, and then the crisp aristocratic voice replied, "I may have one last thing for you before you depart for the Fort, but then you really must get going. The chip needs to be returned. It wouldn't harm though, to show you the footage from the penthouse and what I managed to save from the city's web camera at the time I made my save. If you'd like, of course..."

"I'd love to see it."

"Very well. I'm retrieving the footage now. Of course there was a camera on my loyal securitron, the one you know as Victor, at the time the warheads fell. The city had many cameras, but one was very near the Lucky 38, and though it was badly fried by the nuclear spread, I managed to upload its imagery into my library. You are the only human who has set eyes on this footage, other than myself of course. I warn you...it may be a bit disturbing."

The cocky, half-smile of Mr. House disappeared, his huge screen turning black. My eyes wide, I stepped back, inhaling in the deep silence of the room. Suddenly, the monitor cut back to life, but this was very fuzzy footage. I realized it was the Securitron's camera, recording in this very room. It looked much the same, except for a tall, lean moustached man ran through it, a worried look on his face. Dropping whatever he held in his hand, he rushed over to the main computer. A true technologist, he began frivolously hitting switches, reading logs, hunkered over the system frantically. He spoke, but the main screen was silent except for a few static buzzes.

Mr. House looked up from his work to point to the Securitron. Whether it understood him, or he was just ranting, I'll never know, but following his finger, the recording machine turned to look out the penthouse window, putting Mr. House out of sight. It was then that the Securitron's imagery cut away, and the web camera from New Vegas cut into the picture.

I gasped. I'd never seen anything, ANYTHING like it. The colors had mostly faded to green and black like the main monitor, but a few shades shone out of the screen, subdued from their original magnificent hue. So many tall buildings. Impossibly tall, and lit up with more electricity than Hoover Dam could ever possibly give. They twinkled like stars, pinks and blues and greens and yellows. Down below these structures lights moved back and forth. I couldn't tell what they were, but they looked like a lifestream flowing to and fro. One of the brightly lit buildings I recognized; it was the Lucky 38. My face was glued to this beautiful, surreal picture, when the image cut back to Mr. House's Securitron camera.

It was looking out the window, and the scene was much of the same. Fuzzy, but beautiful. Words will never describe the beauty of that place, so clean and put together. But suddenly, a great arc cut across the brightly lit sky, then another, then another. Not understanding what I was seeing, I took a step back, as the Securitron spun around to Mr. House. His well-gelled hair had fallen around his sweaty face, and he was shouting into the computer system he worked on. His eyes darted upward, seeing what I now realized were nuclear bombs riveting across the faraway sky. Seconds later he was back at work, and suddenly the man was thrown from where he stood. The Securitron itself shook, and Mr. House grabbed at a nearby railing. Still shouting silently, he rushed to the station, securing himself with an iron grip. The Securiton wasn't so lucky; the blast caused it to fall to its side, leaving me with only a view of Mr. House's legs.

Cutting again, the web camera showed me a sky full of explosions. These were the warheads Mr. House destroyed before they could hit the city. I don't know where the other ones were, the ones he disarmed, but I realized that the arcs of light that had twinkled far away in the distance were not shooting stars, as my naivety first led me to believe, but instead were warheads far outside of city limits. And now one had met its mark, probably miles away.

The webcam tremored. Far away in the desert, a huge light rose up, obliterating the happy twinkles of Vegas. Then, as though a great deadly wind blew from the Mojave, I watched the blast hit the edges of the city. It tore the buildings from their steel foundations. Lights went away, roads levelled. A look of frozen horror was on my face as I watched everything that man built, be destroyed by man. I couldn't move. Everything seemed to blow away, the shaky camera appearing frightened. Then it got worse. The tall skyscrapers simply fell, as though their knees had caved in. The once-peaceful lifestream of flowing lights went askew, dimming and moving about in a frenzy. The vibrations from the web camera got even worse, so that I could barely witness the destruction of Las Vegas.

My final image was a cut back to the downed Securitron, where amid the trembling casino penthouse, Mr. House realized he had done all he could and finally fell to his knees, his eyes wide, his jaw dropped as he looked out the window. The screen went black again.

"...That's all of the imagery I was able to save," Mr. House's smooth voice concluded.

I couldn't speak. A lump was in my throat, and I shook my head slowly. Though I didn't want it to, my lip trembled and tears splashed down onto the penthouse floor.

"I believe this concludes our Saturday Afternoon Theatre," Mr. House said sarcastically. "Now, go find Benny."

I nodded, still unable to speak. Like those huge, beautiful buildings of Las Vegas, my heart had come crashing down from my chest cavity, to somewhere around my feet.


	9. To the Fort

"No." Boone looked at me as though I had just slapped him across the face. Then again, maybe I had, figuratively. "You can't be saying this."

"I...I KNOW the Legion-" Nipton was still fresh in my mind.

"No, you don't. Anyone with half a brain wouldn't say they were going to go talk to the Legion. Talk to them? They're slavers, barbarians, they're not gonna want to talk to you. Do you know what they do to women?"

We were standing near the entrance to Cottonwood Cove. And I had yet to see Boone this furious at me.

"Look, I'm not an idiot, okay?"

"As far as I'm concerned, yeah you are. You have no idea who the Legion even is, who Caesar really is. You don't even have a clue."

"You call them barbarians, but running into the middle of their headquarters guns blazing is suicide, and I won't stand for it! Not yet, anyway. I want to see the Legion fall as much as you do, Boone-"

"I seriously fucking doubt that." His words were almost hissed.

"Whatever. I was invited to go there. I HAVE to go there, Mr. House ordered me to."

"On the way here, you acted like you didn't even want to fucking deal with the Lucky 38. In fact, you've been acting strange-stranger than usual-all goddamn day. Just what is your problem? And WHO for fuck's sake anyway, is Benny, and what on earth makes you think that TALKING to the Legion is going to get you anywhere?"

I glared at him. He'd asked too much; how was I to convey what I had seen in Mr. House's penthouse? Mr. House himself, Benny, Caesar, everything? I had tried to explain what I could to him, but found myself unable to even tell him Benny's story. Not that Boone was the type you just want to snuggle up to and confide in, but I had misjudged my own ability to talk about what was going on. Instead, I took the route that I hoped would appeal to Boone's tactical sensibilities.

"This is a huge opportunity for us, for NCR," I said desperately. "The man has invited me into his inner workings. Don't you think it's wise for us to scope out the Fort, get an idea of numbers, weapons, men, instead of the two of us blindly rushing in there?"

He seemed to ponder this, but Boone's anger wasn't ebbing anytime soon.

"I'm not going in there with you."

"I didn't expect you to. I'd never ask you to feign friendliness with the Legion."

"Going back to Novac is better than being with you, when you're sounding like this. Betraying me like this."

Now that one stung. Frowning deeply, I countered, "Then maybe you should go back to Novac."

"Maybe I should. It may be more peaceful without you running around in the middle of the night getting yourself almost killed."

"Well, if you go back, you won't have to worry about me, will you?"

"If that's what you want."

"That's what YOU want. YOU said it!"

From behind us, up the rocky road, came footsteps. I spun around, Boone looked over my shoulder. Approaching us was a Legionnaire. My heart stopped; I knew my companion's policy: See red, shoot it dead. The Legionnaire glared at me, then noticed the golden medallion around my neck.

"You must be...it is you. Well...well, in that case. Come, Caesar awaits."

I turned back to Boone, who was staring at the man in red with such an intense hatred, I don't think I've ever seen anything match it. Finally Boone turned his head to glance at me, then inhaled deeply, fuming. With self-control I never knew the man possessed, he turned and walked away from us. I stared after him.

"Is this man with you? Shall I prepare a boat for three?" The Legionnaire asked, treating me so nicely because of the sacred medallion. We both watched Boone walk away.

"No...I'm traveling alone," I said in a subdued voice. As I followed the dutiful man down to the water's edge, and he rowed me away from shore, I watched the little dot that was Boone disappear into the Mojave. I didn't know if I would ever see him again.

I leaned against a wall before I exited Mr. House's underground...whatever the hell that fucking place was. The Legion guard watched me curiously, and hungrily, as I caught my breath. Although not high in radiation levels, the facility had nonetheless left me a little out of it. I didn't plan on going to talk to Caesar and throwing up in his lap. Even though Boone probably would've appreciated the story, it wouldn't have looked very good.

And I'll be honest, I wanted to talk to Caesar more than anyone else here. Not for any loyalty reason; no, I thought he was a barbarian just like the rest of them. Caesar was charismatic though, something we had in common. He was also very learned, I could tell. And although I had no idea what my background was, I felt that education was something important to both of us. He liked me, in his condescending dictator way (which oddly enough reminded me of Mr. House's fondness for me) and as long as I smiled and nodded my head like a good little girl, I had every chance of getting out of here alive, with invaluable information about the Legion.

Regaining my composure, I handed my weapons reluctantly over, keeping the silenced .22 that was strapped to my thigh. Entering the tent again, I didn't even look to my right, because there on his knees, tied by his wrists, knelt Benny. I had no idea what I was going to do about him. My mind was bogged down with so many thoughts, I couldn't even formulate a plan. I wasn't so good at this lone wanderer thing sometimes. But I made my way to Caesar, who looked pleased.

"Beautiful noise, those explosions," he commended me, and I smiled slyly, thankful for my ability to mask my true emotions. Caesar rambled on, telling me what I already expected to hear; I was to get rid of Mr. House. There were plenty of obvious reasons why the dictator would want to bring down the power of New Vegas' "owner", so I did what I had told Boone I would do: played along, pretended to care, falsely promised my allegiance. Boone... while blinded, I had no other sense to help me along other than my touch, and intuition, and through both of these I glimpsed his great pain. So recently I had embraced him in Novac, and now he was gone forever. The Wasteland was a cruel, cruel place, and the image of the peaceful pre-War Vegas had been playing in my head all day. I was jealous of those times, those people. I was out here, fighting my way along, aiming for...I didn't really know, at the moment...and now I was completely and utterly alone, again.

"There are rewards for doing as I command." Jovially, Caesar broke the news to me, "Today, your reward is vengeance. You get to decide how Benny dies. Whether you want the crucifixion, a fair fight in the area, or just a shot in the head back at him, it's your decision." The handsome older man nodded in the direction of the checkered jacket. "Go ahead, I'm sure he's dying to hear the news."

"Thank you, Caesar," I didn't forget, although I felt tongue-tied. What on earth was I going to do now?

"Consider it the first of many bestowments."

Consider me setting fire to your tent one night, I thought as I turned away, heading towards Benny.

I walked up to him, and though he looked tired, dusty, and generally downtrodden, the dark haired male's eyes lit up when he saw me approaching. "It's okay baby, you can go ahead and laugh. I'm at the end of my rope here, but I can appreciate the humor."

I wanted so very badly to sit on my haunches with him, but this would no doubt make the guards suspicious of my intentions. I still had my badass face on, and though the sight of warm-hearted bad boy Benny almost made my knees stop working, I stood. "Not even a smile, eh?" he said in response to my tight glare.

The easygoing voice did make me smile, and he winked. "That's better. Ain't a dame in the Mojave can smile like that. I ain't just sayin' that cause I'm tied up and you're loomin' either babydoll. So, tell me tell me. What'd you find down there?"

I thought of the Securitrons, their silent army. Even now, so close to death, I could see the gleam of greed in Benny's eyes. Quietly, I responded, "Nothing of any importance." The guards, leaning on my every word, heard me lie, "I blew it all up."

"What! Why'd you do that! You coulda had Vegas...and you got rid of it?" Pained by such a bad business move, Benny shook his head. The guards were still listening.

"Caesar says I get to decide how you die." I said as coldly as I could manage. And as I was still searching for what in blue fuck blazes to do next, it hit me, like lightning. Oh but no...not that...there had to be another way...

"I...see." Benny's crestfallen response, paired with the way his eyes dimmed, almost made me falter. "And how's that gonna happen?" He accepted death. Not bravely, like some airheaded heroic gesture, but Benny defined "fair is fair." I felt horrible for what I was about to do, but after quickly analyzing my almost burnt-out brain for other options, I knew there weren't any.

"Make it nice and clean, will ya?" He was eyeing my holster, no doubt wondering where my 10mm was. "That's all you gotta do for me baby, just like I did you."

My heart hadn't risen from my feet, where it landed in Mr. House's penthouse earlier. Seeing Boone leave me only made it worse. And now it plummeted six feet under as I spoke.

"Guards. Crucify him."

"What?" Benny couldn't believe his ears, either. "What, no, not that! You bitch! You-" the guards weren't gentle as they hauled Benny to his feet. As he moved past me, he snapped his head around. "You're a sick fuck! How could you do this to me?" As he yelled maniacally, the guards yelled at him, grunting at each other, and above it all, I heard the cold chuckles of Caesar somewhere to my left.

I turned in my sleep, clutching the scratchy fabric of Boone's shirt. He was laying beside me, in the master bedroom of the Lucky 38's suite. I smiled, eyes still closed, hearing the crackling of the fire, when a distant howl caused me to open my eyes. Lifting my head off the makeshift bed, I realized I wasn't clutching Boone at all; I had been holding onto my own bag, used as a sad half-pillow. Nor was I in my suite, but huddled up against a teensy campfire under a sheltering rock. Confused, I sat up more, remembering everything that had happened today.

Boone was gone. Benny had been crucified. I had left the Fort hours ago and came here to camp, eaten a pathetic dinner, and settled down to a miserable sleep. The howl I had heard was probably one of the Legion mongrels. I wasn't far from the Fort; in fact, if I looked over the ledge I slept on, it was visible as a huge red smear in the moonlight. Checking my pip-boy, I realized it was just after 2 in the morning. I knew what I had to do now, and I had camped here purposefully to carry out my plan.

I wasn't running late, but I had to get a move on if I wanted to make it to the Fort soon. The guards would be mid-shift and not at their peak of attention. The moon was shielded behind wispy clouds; the air was crisp. Just like a typical night in the Mojave, if I expected to do this and do it right, I would have to make every move a careful one.

And so I did: dressing in Legion gear for good measure, I simply left my belongings and snuffed out the campfire with sand. Alone, I made my way down the steep precipice and, hindered by the heavy, bulky armour, scaled the wall of the fort where I had seen a large gap between guards earlier.

My feet hit the dirt more loudly than I would have liked. For the first time in ages, I wasn't wearing Boone's beret (having tucked it into my breast pocket) and my loose hair fell into my face when I landed, crouched, behind a Legion tent. Several guards milled around, but I looked for one in particular, the Decanus. These were, at least I think, higher ranked Legionaries, and wore large feathery masks that all but hid their faces. I had only seen two milling around the camp earlier, and now I ducked behind a tent as one approached. Whether or not he was one I'd seen at my visit from today, I didn't know or care. When he walked by me, I stuck the silenced .22 in his neck, the small but effective bullet severing his spine.

The man fell, and I only stayed long enough to retrieve his mask and drag his unfortunate body into the shadows near the fort. Then I stood, adjusting the crimson face mask over my mouth, cringing at its smell. The feathered headdress hid my blond locks, and I holstered the gun, giving myself the once-over. I looked passable. The only part that concerned me was...well...

I looked down at my chest. No amount of bulky armor could hide the fact that I wasn't a man. Not fitting for a woman's shape, I just looked even more clunky and awkward. But there was nothing for it, and it WAS 3 in the morning. Likely enough, blending in as well as I did, no one would spare a look at my chest. At least, that's what I hoped.

The Fort was even more dead than I had wished for all day, several lazy guards milling around the drawbridge, others obviously dozing off. I wondered how Caesar would react to this horrible military display, but then again, I wondered how many of his men were forced to fight for the Legion against his will. Most of the guards spent their time looking to the water anyway, where they expected attacks to rise from. No matter what Boone might think, coming here had been beneficial to me already.

Not even slaves plodded the steep hills where the crucified stood watch. And there in the dim light I saw him; on a cross, head down, Benny.


	10. Ringadingding, baby! Part III

by *leonkennedyisgod

For possibly the ten thousandth time, I scoped the area around the crosses. Nobody seemed to care enough to guard the dead and near-dead. No one was even in sight, save for the two guards at the bottom of the fort near the drawbridge entrance. I had to do this, I reminded myself. I couldn't just half-plan something and not follow through. Still, it's pretty fucking intimidating.

Regardless, I stood tall and strong, balling my hands into fists, the Stealth Boy strapped to my belt, hidden below the folds of the gaudy uniform. In the worst-case scenario, I would have to use it. Walking as nonchalantly as I could, I crossed the dusty yard where the stench of decaying bodies seemed to keep even slaves away. The crucifixion hill loomed before me, where Benny was the only one hanging who looked remotely alive anymore. Ten feet off the ground, I saw pegs that had been hammered into the sides of the cross, perhaps to help hold it up, as several ropes were taut on these steel nails.

Benny's head was down, his face in darkness. I could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, though, and it gave me hope. Glancing at a leering skeleton, who watched me from another cross, I tightened the fingerless gloves I wore and stepped up to Benny's cross. Thankfully, due to the hill leering above us, we were in shadow. If anyone saw me now, they'd have to have a light, or else come walking across the yard. Benny raised his head at the noise. Before he could open his mouth, I pressed one finger to the red face mask, shaking my head. Then I grabbed onto a peg, pulling myself up.

"What...the..." Benny whispered, as I scaled the wood. It wasn't a very easy task, climbing a cross, and floundering over Benny made it even harder. Finally he moved his feet what little he could, and I balanced myself one-footed on the platform, my arms draping over the T where Benny's arms were extended. We were pressed against each other, me holding onto the cross for dear life, and Benny looking at me, completely horrified.

I chanced moving one hand and brought it up to the face mask, pulling it down. Benny's eyes moved to my mouth; with glasses covering my face and the feathered headdress on my head, my lips were the only thing recognizable to him. His face immediately lightened, then darkened. "It's...it's you! But..."

Not bothering to pull back up the mask, I replied, "I'm so sorry about this." My eyes, hidden behind shades, turned to his bloody wrists, where thick rope chafed his skin. "I didn't have any other choice. I couldn't have broken you out of there...not with no weapons, no backup. We both would've been toast..."

Toast? Toast? Who was I, Benny?

"So...now you're back to what, cut me down?" He sounded incredulous.

"Yes."

Benny stared at my lips for another minute, his gaze trailing upwards to my hidden eyes. "You fuckin' with me?"

"No. But, Benny..."

This was the part I wasn't sure how to word. You'd think I was Boone, the way I hesitated to talk. However, my audience was sandwiched between a wooden cross and me, as I held on like a monkey to a tree. There was nothing else to do but say it.

"If I get you down, you can't go back to Vegas."

Ever the businessman, Benny guessed, "You gonna' take over my empire now? You fix up whatever was in the basement?"

"The Securitrons have been upgraded. Mr. House wants you dead. He knew what you were trying to do when you ran off with the chip up here. I told him I was going to kill you. But if you show up, you'll be shot dead faster than-"

"Hey, hey, I got it. I guess I didn't get far enough to take old House outta the picture. That plan's a dead one now, down the toilet. No problemo, Benny'll start up fresh. Just happy to be alive, at the moment."

I paused, hanging in the night sky with Benny close to me.

"Promise me you won't try to go back."

"No way no how babydoll. And might I say. I ain't never seen such a soul on any person in the desert. Warms your heart, yanno? You're golden, mama."

I didn't really have a response to that. I withdrew my knife. "I'm going to cut you down, and then we-"

"I know a way outta here. It's only good for one of us, you dig? You can go your way, I'll go mine. No need to get everybody's panties in a wad. Fink our way out, that's for sure, but ehhh." He shrugged. "Alive's alive. It's somethin'."

"Okay. Okay, that sounds great. And I have this," I said, patting my waist. Benny tilted his head.

"Is that a Stealth boy?"

"It is. For you. I've already got my disguise." I pointed at the headdress.

"Golden, baby, golden. Cut the Ben Man down, yeah?"

I sawed through the ropes on Benny's left wrist, noticing the angry bite marks there. Once his arm was free, I opened my mouth to tell him to hold on, because he would likely lose his balance once the other hand was cut. Surprising me though, Benny slowly brought his arm down, sighing at the relief of finally moving it, wiggling his fingers to get the feeling back in them. I glanced over my shoulder at his hand, which was caked with dried blood. Shaking his arm once more, Benny then draped it around my back.

I paused in my sawing of his other hand to stare at him. As though this were the most normal thing in the world, Benny raised his eyebrows, a relieved smile plastered on his boyish face. Moving carefully, not that I needed to as Benny was holding me, I cut the final tie. Now Benny put his other arm behind him, steadying both of us as I lowered my arm and pocketed the knife.

"Alrighty baby, if you can cut my ankles, we're free as flies."

Not feeling very certain but most assuredly looking like a badass, I pushed off of the wooden cross and propelled backwards, landing on my feet on the slippery slope. I looked up at Benny; he gave me the thumbs up and I withdrew the knife again, this time cutting his ankles. Right now, I was all roses and sunshine inside. This was going to actually, really, completely work. The fact that I had invaded the Legion's camp and (almost) successfully freed a hostage on my own made me pure giddy. Exploding from excitement.

Benny leapt gracefully down, landing on his feet as well, and then turned to me. Maybe I really had been around Boone too long, because I was already fumbling for the Stealth Boy to hand over to my raven-haired murderer. He approached me as I looked down, then grabbed my cheeks, forcing my face up.

"C'mere," was all Benny said, before burying himself into the most passionate kiss I can ever remember. It only lasted a second though, and he pulled away, grinning like a fool. I realized I was, as well. "You did it for me, kiddo. If only every poor bum I shot in the head repaid me the way you did. Hey, I won't forget this."

"Don't make me regret this," I said fretfully, ever female, ever doubtful.

Benny took the StealthBoy from my outstretched hand. Buckling it on his wrist, he said, "You know this doesn't make us even, right?"

"Wh-excuse me?"

"I owe you one, babe. I owe you a bigtime one." Benny activated the Stealth Boy, and the checkered jacket faded into the night.

He stepped past me, and I turned, too eager to get back to the edge of the Fort and climb out of the hell hole. As disappeared Benny disappeared into the night, a yell caught my ear, and I spun around. From above me, two Legionaries pointed. Oh, fuck. What had they seen? Startled, I gazed at them, not being able to decipher their yelled Latin. Shortly thereafter, I didn't need to decipher it. They were calling the troops. Red rushed forward, and gunshots rang out.

I was fucked.

I made a break for it, not even bothering to shoot back. If there was one thing I was inadvertently good at, it was running, and with my rifle back at camp, I was a lot lighter on my feet. Happily I realized I could outrun half the Legion at my pace. They were gathering around me though, and I paused only momentarily to re-route an exit.

One of their large "dummies" used for fighting stood in front of me. One glance told me it was built sturdy, which made sense, because the Legion detested anything containing the word "weak." My momentum carried me toward it, and I jumped, extending one leg, which caught on the dummies arm. I took the opportunity to propel myself even higher, grabbing on with both hands to a cable that held up a rather large Legionnaire tent. The cable bent under my weight, but I didn't pull it down more than a foot. Good. While still having the extra momentum from my jump, I pitched my legs forward, doing a flip on the cable.

It's not easy to spin in a 360 and let go at exactly the right moment, or twist yourself around while being suspended in the air, hoping your feet land on that 4 inch thick cable you were aiming for. Miraculously, though, I did it, and wasted no time continuing my dead run far above the deadly ground where the melee weapons waited to bludgeon me. Several of the guards had guns, but at this time of night, as quickly as I was moving, I was a poor target, and bullets whizzed by my head.

Then I reached the end of the cable; I pitched forward, almost falling; while scrambling for balance in the air I realized the drop was a good thirty feet. Grabbing for anything I could, I found a large Legion flag in my hands. Clutching it for dear life, it did not prevent my fall, but instead I rode the large flag downward. A huge, tall torch leered in front of me; I kicked at it, only intend for it to get out of my path, but it landed at the base of the tent I had just ran across, setting it ablaze.

I dropped off the flag about six feet from the ground, ducking into a roll and turning upright to see chaos all around me. Not only the tent the torch hit was on fire, but the connecting tent had sparked as well. The cable hadn't buckled under my weight, but the flames caused a side of the tent to cave, barring the way from me and the Legion. I booked it, finding the wall to the fort, and grabbing at any barb or bump I could, literally clawing my way upward. It stood at a formidable 40 feet. I had gone about 20 feet when the first bullet hit me.

It was a 9mm round, I would later find out. It soared into the back of my shoulder, tearing its way through and out. I grunted, but managed to hold on. Although my first instinct should've been to let go, the adrenaline pressured me to climb faster. Bullets dinged around my head and legs, and I'm sure I looked like a frenzied demon scaling the wall. Finally I reached the top, pitching over on my stomach, all but falling forward. Despite having the searing pain in my shoulder, I somersaulted before landing on my head, ending up on my feet instead. I fell forward to my knees and screamed in agony, clutching my already-bloody shoulder. Hurriedly, I ripped off the face mask and twisted it, screaming again as I pushed the fabric into the bullet hole, my hand shaking as the wetness spilled out of the wound and onto my hand.

It wasn't much, but it would stave off the bleeding. If I got lucky the wound would even clot over thanks to the cloth's pressure. Putting my right hand up over my left shoulder, holding in the rag, I got to my feet, running awkwardly now. Bullets pinged and ripped through the barrier, and the drawbridge thundered open. I ran without looking behind me, still going at breakneck speed although slowed slightly by my shoulder. I was heading for the riverbank. Only thirty yards later, though, something told me to look back at my pursuers. As I turned, one's head exploded. Several others looked on in horror as an advancing Legate's head was shattered. My head snapped to the mountain above me.

Another shot sizzled through the air, a Decantus this time losing his head. The men came in a rush, but every few seconds, another fell. My jaw was dropped, my shoulders heaving, but I realized I couldn't stop. I fled again.

Bullets continued to catch dirt behind me, and a few of the faster Legionaries were starting to catch up. Worse, they were armed and I wasn't. I wasn't going to be the best at hand-to-hand anyway, seeing as how my left arm was useless, but these men had guns. Up the rocky trail, it seemed no one could catch up to me. Two almost did. As their footfalls grew nearer, both suddenly lost their heads.

I was at the bottom of a mountain, and somewhere at the top of that mountain a sniper was having a field day.

My strength waned, I felt a sudden wave of fatigue, and the men were coming in swarms. Then it happened; my feet, which had carried me here, to Benny, over a cable, and out of the Fort, let me down. I tripped, falling off the road and down the steep ravine toward the river. The three closest pursuers followed my lead and plunged off the level dirt trail and onto the rocks, their only goal my head. I bounced several times, watching two of the men lose their heads mid-fall, but the last one caught up with me. In the air, he grabbed my throat and hit me with the butt of his machete-no doubt wanting me alive for Caesar-and just as I passed out, his skull exploded into fragment's, the sniper hitting his final key mark as I, unconscious, hit the river.


	11. Back to Freeside

She opened her arms, and the small figure jumped onto her torso, ready to play. But the Courier was too tired for games. She kept her eyes closed, and opted for a hug. The boy was not one for hugs, as no five-year-old boy was. He pushed away, getting uncomfortably close to her reposed face.

"Wake up!"

"I'm too tired..."

"You've got to wake up!"

"We can play some other time, Liam. Your mother will be-"

"Please, please..." Never was there such urgency in a young child's voice. Desperation, even. The Courier's eyes snapped open, ready to console him.

As her eyes intook the scene, the boy vanished, nowhere to be seen. His small visage disappeared amid the strange blue-black surrounding her. A golden coin floated strangely in front of her face. With a gasp, she choked, and then kicked. She wasn't suspended in air. She was underwater. The Courier could still hear the shrill voice. Wake up! it sounded. WAKE UP!

She listened, frantically scratching her way up. The sun was far away, but she desperately climbed the agonizingly slow river, wondering why her left shoulder was so stiff. The blond head broke the surface of the water, and she realized she was moving, swiftly. The river was smooth, though. The Courier lifted one arm to swim toward shore, then winced at the severe pain. Grasping her shoulder with her right hand, she looked down at the wound. The red face mask was soaked, crimson staining her entire shoulder. Using only her right arm, the girl steered herself near the bank, the only sound in her ringing ears now the rushing of the Colorado.

Now her hands gripped gravel, and she pulled herself out of the water. The Legion outfit she wore was impossibly heavy when wet; no wonder she had eventually sank. Still coughing, and shaking her head, her weak elbows didn't hold her up when she moved forward on her hands and knees. Collapsing onto the bank, the Courier looked rougher than she ever had. Still-coagulating blood was on her temple, and had ran all down the front of her face, staining her teeth. Compliments of a legion machete.

Her shoulder was another story; meaty, swollen, in tremendous pain. The girl lay on her stomach, trying to breathe normally. How long had she been floating down the river? Faintly, she remembered the night before. Now the sun was high. Still on her stomach, she tilted the pip-boy to her line of vision. 11am. The Courier sighed and rolled over onto her back.

She had nothing right now, other than the silenced pistol she'd walked into the Fort with. All her food and traveling weapons were back at the campfire, which thanks to her not-so-covert kidnapping, would be trolling with Legion mongrels. She was starving, and her shoulder could really go for the numbing effect of a stimpak. The Courier mustered all her strength and rolled over onto her back.

There was nothing to do for the shoulder but let it heal. The bullet had passed through cleanly, leaving a gaping wound. Soaking for hours in water didn't really help the pain at all, but it had stopped actively bleeding, so there was simply nothing for it. It crippled her, pain shooting even at the slightest move. The girl's hair was for once, completely down. Unpinned, it reached past her shoulders, fanning out along the warm, smooth, river rocks.

She could have laid there for the rest of the afternoon, but the Courier slowly, painfully sat upright. The water lapped around her ankles, and she pulled them underneath her with huge effort. Every muscle begging for repose, she bent forward and viewed her reflection in the crystal blue.

Her eyes were swollen, her face caked with blood. It was drying rapidly thanks to the sun's dry heat. Even her normally golden hair was stained, matted. But amid the pain and despite the fact that she was going into shock and her entire body was trembling, the girl cupped her hands in a most disciplined way, still sitting on her haunches, and dipped her blood crusted hands into the water, bringing it to her mouth.

What had almost choked her to death minutes ago was now the giver of life, and although she was so dehydrated that she wanted to stick her head in the river and gulp, she forced herself to take these shaky handfuls of water one by one. The trembling didn't cease, and what little water her slender hands could hold was sloshing out, allowing her the most pitiful of sips.

After she had drank, the Courier slowly and painfully washed her hands in the water, scrubbing what blood she could off. Then she used her stained hands to slowly pry a torn piece of the Legion's under-uniform off, dip it in the water, and pat her swollen face. She didn't really want to touch the wound on her head. Once she found a doctor, he or she could deal with that. Head injuries were out of the Courier's league. Leaving the rag by the riverside, the Courier did one last thing before departing. Praying that she hadn't lost it in the events of the past half-day, she reached her shaking hand into the breast pocket of the armor.

"The last thing you never see," she read slowly. The Courier closed her eyes. This way, it was easier than ever for her to relive the moment she touched Boone's face while blinded. The sorrow etched onto his brow, the regret that seemed to tremble underneath his very skin. It wasn't how she wanted to remember him. She wanted to remember someone brave and intelligent, with unmatched scoped skill. A companion and a friend. But the reality was that Boone was a detached, lost, wretched soul, and now that she understood that, she missed him more than she ever thought she would.

Alone, the Courier cursed her shaking hands, and firmly put the beret on her head, wincing as her split-open injury still sent courses of pain storming throughout her body. Tears sprang to her forest greens at the sensation, but she situated the hat anyway, tucking her hair haphazardly under it. Then the woman in the Legion uniform and the NCR beret put her palms before her on the rocky ground. Her bottom half felt like jelly, but she brought them up underneath her, unfolding her slender legs and planting her feet on the ground.

You will always be alone. It sounded taunting. I will make sure of that. The Courier inhaled angrily now. She didn't know where the voice originated from. It wasn't hers. Yet it came from inside her. A distant memory perhaps.

If I am alone, then I have nothing to lose. She pushed upward, gritting her teeth at the impossible pain it stressed on her shoulder, but not crying out. Slowly she rose from a kneeled position to a standing one, lifting her torso and once again arising. At nearly 5'11'', the Courier looked weathered, beaten, tired, but still as formidable as she ever did. Staring up at the ravine before her, she set her jaw and began the long, long hike upward.

She was sleeping like a rock, a comatose sleep, near death. Come to think of it, she hadn't sleep this deeply since being back at Doc Mitchell's after the Benny incident. Actually, she hadn't bedded down to go to sleep. She had collapsed in her tracks. Now she restlessly shifted, her head lolling on the rock it had hit when she passed out. The Courier had trekked countless miles, still so far away from Vegas it seemed like an eternity.

The festering face mask was tenderly removed from her shoulder. It was replaced with clean white bandage. She didn't feel the injection going into her arm, but somewhere far away, she heard a voice. In her sleep, she murmured, "Boone?..." There was no answer of course. Boone was gone.

"Liam?..." Who was Liam?

Then a sharp noise sounded. A bark. "Rex..." she sighed wistfully, and fell comatose once more.

"Man, there you are. I got so many questions for you I don't even know where to start."

The Courier lifted herself, but the black-haired man put a hand on her chest. "Whoa there, take it easy. I think you got bump number two on your head. Or maybe three or four. I ain't a doctor."

One face she didn't expect to see so soon: the handsome, amiable King sat by her bed. Upon further realization, she saw she was in HIS bed, the ridiculous heart-shaped mattress spanning out all around her. The King was in a chair. At his side was Rex.

"You!" she said in a surprised voice. The King motioned carelessly.

"Me? Let's talk about you. My dog shows up, barking his head off, I can tell somethin's wrong. I send two of my men out, figurin' he's dug up a gold mine or somethin, and he leads them to a remote part of the Mojave that I still ain't located on a map, where you're there, out cold. And in that getup. Now what in blazes is going on, exactly?"

The Courier lay back down, feeling nauseated. Oh god, she'd barely gotten on the King's good side. She didn't want to throw up in his bed.

"I was...I got caught up on the wrong end of the Fort."

"The Fort? You gotta be kiddin' me. That place is so far away from here. No way you could make it from there in the time you left ol Rexy boy with me. Where's that NCR fella you were travelin' with? What the hell happened?"

She was silent. What was she supposed to say? "I snuck into the Legion's base after being invited in there, upgrading the Securitron army, and crucifying my murderer, then went back in to save him and almost died. Oh and my sniper left me because I wanted to talk to his hated enemy and the group who sold his wife into slavery." Probably not.

The King was a decent man, and nodded after a few seconds of silence. "All right I get it, the stranger's business is the stranger's business. I honestly don't know how the hell you do half the shit you do, lady," and admiration hinted in his voice, "but at least now you're fixed up and ready to go. I don't have any work for you at this precise moment, but I'm hopin' my fellas rescuin' you leaves you owin' us one. In this day and age, who knows what's bound to happen."

"The Kings will always have my support," she responded back from where she lay, eyes trained on the ceiling.

The King stood, nodded his head, and winked flirtatiously at the Courier. "Music to my ears. Now, I got some affairs to take care of. Enjoy the bed. I'll see you later," and with a final wink, he exited. The girl curled up, wincing at the dull pain in her shoulder, and whispered, "Liam," before dozing off, hoping she could will his presence to her in a dream. Who was the boy? Not her son, she was certain.

How does it feel to be so alone? the malicious voice echoed.


	12. Unleash the Khan

Manny had just gotten off duty, and slung his sniper rifle over his back as he made his way across the small motel yard towards his room. The sun was setting, its golden aura lighting the scorched town of Novac and highlighting all of the ruins as though it wanted to point out the humans' faults. The sniper paid no heed to this, as usual, and went directly from the dark setting of the dinosaur mouth to the dark setting of his comfortable room.

As he was shrugging off his jacket, Manny heard footsteps upstairs. He tilted his head curiously; was the girl back again? They had spent some time together the last time she passed through, which was only a week or so ago. She had been temporarily blinded by the cazador stings, but nonetheless chatty and fun to be around. They had shared talks of the Khans, a group who had just recently also accepted the Courier for her sometimes astounding feats. Manny was happy to hear of the updates she gave on some of his old friends, and he shared his plethora of knowledge about the group's background.

Why would she have come back to Novac so soon? She was one to travel, he knew this, but Novac really had nothing other than a big doofy dinosaur out front. Nothing unless you counted Boone, but she had taken care of that too, although it did surprise Manny that the stoic Boone could be gotten to follow anyone. It made sense, regardless of Boone's nature. He hated just about everyone in Novac. Why he had continued to protect them on the night shift then, was a mystery in itself.

Either way, it would be good to see her company again. Manny set the sniper rifle carefully on his bed, and pulled on a simple white t-shirt. There were friendly people in town, but none so interesting as the blond. And he wouldn't miss an opportunity to see how Boone was doing second-hand, avoiding the confrontation and making sure his ex-best friend was okay despite all the hatred the latter aimed in Manny's direction.

With renewed energy the man hopped up the stairs, headed toward the girl's room. He figured Boone was probably in there, but would risk a glare of doom for a few minutes in order to say hello to the friendly female. Possibly set up a time to talk as they did last time. He knocked on the door. From inside came a pause, then silence, then footsteps rapidly approaching. The door swung open, and the first thing Manny saw was a shotgun.

The ex-Khan ex-NCR was no slowpoke; he elbowed the barrel out of the way, lunging forward with a punch. His fist was caught by the shotgun-wielder, and Manny paused. One of his own hands was still pushing the shotgun away, the other was in a fist, being crushed by Boone. The man wore his sunglasses, but Manny still saw his eyebrows rise in shock, then lower unexpectedly.

"You!" Manny pulled both arms back, straightening. "What the hell are you aiming that at me for."

"Can't be too careful," Boone retorted back, lowering the gun. His momentary shock at realizing who he almost attacked seemed to disappear immediately, because his sour scowl returned. "What do you want?"

"Relax, Boone," Manny said, never really getting used to the scathing tone, "I just wanted to see-"

"She's not here."

"Well, where is she?"

There was a dramatically long pause before Boone said tightly, "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? You two split up?" Unlike Carla, who was a demon incarnate sent from hellfire to ruin Manny's life, he adored the Courier. Without her frequent Novac stops, how would he ever get to see her?

"It's none of your goddamn business." Boone must've really been in a bad mood, because he shot back, "I'm surprised you don't look happier, like last time."

"Last time? What the..." Manny rolled his eyes. "You can't be serious. Boone." Now his tone turned slightly more hopeful, realizing that Boone had just spoken more words to Manny than he had since Carla's death.

Boone seemed to realize that Manny was about to attempt to speak to him, because he moved to close the door. Manny put his foot down though, literally and figuratively, slamming his boot into the door crevice. Normally assertive, the ex-Khan pushed the door wide open, entering the room. The look on Boone's face turned from angry to murderous.

"I didn't like your wife. Hell man, you were the only one who did. That doesn't fucking mean I sit and thank the Legion every day for kidnapping her. That doesn't mean I wanted her to be a slave. You probably still think I have something to do with that, but that's-"

Boone's voice was low and deadly, like the hissing of a snake. "I know you didn't have anything to do with it."

Undaunted, Manny pressed on, his own anger too built up to contain. "You were too fucking busy laying in the spell of holy Carla to see how she treated everybody here. I don't think I'm better than anyone. You know that. You know I'd give the shirt off my back to anyone, man, woman, kid. It's always been like that, since the Khans. Spending my days aching up in the nest to protect people. Just wanting what's best for you, and that woman hated every second she spent here."

"That's not true."

"It is true. It's your word against a whole town's, man. Wake up! Just because we all had a grudge against her, it doesn't mean a damn thing to you. Now you spend your time wallowing in your misery, just like she did while she was here. Carla was a bombshell, nobody denies that. How caught up in THAT were you, when that's what you got every fucking night? I was right there for you, as much as I could be, taking shots for you man, tr-"

"You sure weren't there in Bitter Springs, were you?" Boone snapped, raising his voice.

"Yeah, I wasn't, because I don't like to kill my own fucking kind. Was Angel Carla there for you in Bitter Springs? Did she help you through that mess, too?"

Boone didn't speak, but his glare seemed to seep through his sunglasses and pierce Manny. The latter figured, well, there was no way to repair it, Boone hated him now. If the man he only wanted to see happy was going to loathe him until they were both dead, there was no reason to not speak his mind.

"I know what Carla saw in you, I just don't know what you saw in Carla. I can sit here and tell you for the rest of my fucking life, Craig, how WRONG for you that girl was, and you were miserable anyway when she was alive. It doesn't matter. What matters is, at least I have the balls to be up front to you about it. Not only that, but I said I'm fucking sorry about what happened to her. I didn't do it, I had nothing to do with it, but nobody deserves that."

The taller sniper seemed to flinch, as though his brain refused to process anymore, and he stepped past Manny, opening the door. "Anything else?"

"No, man." As Manny turned to leave, he stopped and, in a very cruel, un-Manny-like way, added, "Good job running off the only decent girl you ever brought around town. I'm sure she realized what a dick you are, too."

The door slammed, and Manny balled his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to punch the door. He was so strong, and angry, and the door so weak, that if he had he probably would've splintered the door, and he didn't really want to see Boone's face so soon.


	13. Arcade and the Atomic Wrangler

The Courier desperately needed this time. She hadn't looked this nice since storming out of the Lucky 38 to unwittingly have sex with Benny, and although her bones ached, her shoulder panged, and her head was sore all over, she still cleaned up well. At the moment, she was at the card table, giggling into the shoulder of Arcade Gannon, a man she had come to relate to better than any single person in the Wasteland thus far.

The dealer passed out a new round of cards, and she straightened on her stool, trying to calm herself. Though the Courier had already won a few hundred caps, Arcade was smoking the table, despite having plenty in him to drink. A crowd had assembled to watch his uncanny poker skills.

"It's...it's all about st..stassticistis...hmm. Sta-tis-ticss." Arcade said knowledgeably, picking up his cards. He tried focusing so hard on pronouncing 'statistics' that his eyes crossed. The Courier didn't really seem to care, for she nodded at a man across the casino.

"What about him."

"Ew, no," Arcade said, a sardonic look on his face, and they both snorted with laughter again. "You have the worst taste I have ever seen."

"Yeah, I know," she said a bit sadly. "Hey, full house."

"Straight flush."

"Fuck me."

"No."

This time Arcade put on a very stern and commandeering businesslike expression while the Courier ducked her head in laughter. He didn't break the leering face even when scooping up the chips on the table, to the sighs of the other players, some who were determined to win their cash back.

To her, the caps meant little. She wasn't so much interested in the currency as she was buying another rifle and set of stimpaks. She knew she lived a dangerous life, and had to have protection somehow. Leaving all her supplies on the side of the mountain had been one of her biggest mistakes, and the girl beat herself up for it the whole journey back to Vegas. She had plenty now to get a decent rifle and some other supplies, but Arcade had proven to be a soul like hers. Though she had such scant memory of her life before Benny's shot, she found herself describing scientific formulas, philosophizing, and exchanging wits with this very intelligent, very well-spoken, very drunk and gay man.

Despite the King's joking remarks about the Followers, the Courier didn't mind them. A man running a street gang probably thought them a little, well, wimpy-and so did the Courier-but it was nice to spend time with a for the most part, tolerant, educated, and helpful group of people. Being in the Old Mormon Fort and talking to people like Farkas and Arcade seemed her best niche. Now that she had gotten accustomed to living off the wild in the desert and blazing up radscorpions and the like, there was a huge part of her that enjoyed that as well. But she'd gotten her fill recently after journeying back alone from the Fort.

Nobody knew where she had been, except the King. She later told him only because of the great debt she felt she owed him, and he was enraptured, enchanted even at the news. She told her story while leaving out Benny, and he was gracious enough to shrug off what he didn't need to know. Getting that weight off her chest, the Courier had then made her way back to the Lucky 38. This morning's events were ghosts in her alcohol-hindered brain, but they still looped treacherously.

Banged up, she walked back to the casino in a King's outfit. As the King himself noted, it probably wasn't a good idea to go wandering into the Strip wearing a Legion uniform. Rex accompanied her, his happy doggy brain causing him to trot alongside someone he considered a master and friend. Ignoring the strange looks of everyone outside, the Courier stumbled in the doors of her home, immediately going upstairs to change and freshen up.

Victor had wheeled into the entryway as the Courier pressed a wet towel to her face.

"Howdy, pardner!" Rex growled, and the Courier wondered if it was because the robot Boone always referred to as 'retard machine' wore a hat on his screen, or if Rex just found Victor overbearing and creepy, as she did.

"Yer back! That's good news! The bossman will be real happy to see you, why don't you head on up?"

The Platinum Chip. She untucked it from its nesting spot behind Boone's beret insignia. The girl held the little thing in the palm of her hand, remembering what Yes Man said, how eager he was to thwart Benny and help her instead overcome New Vegas. How badly Mr. House wanted the damn thing. Had he gotten it when he intended to, New Vegas may have looked far more similar to the image she'd seen on the screen.

That reminded her. Ignoring Victor, the Courier went to the terminal in her suite, logging into the computer as Mr. House. Although she had no idea how, her computer skill was excellent, and she knew exactly where to look into the main upload region of the network. Mr. House had uploaded the footage of Vegas to its own specific folder, and eagerly she clicked on the file, opting to move and store it externally. Noticing another file entitled "Pre-war Interview", curious as to its contents, she copied that as well. Something to watch later, perhaps. A holodisk was popped into the writer, and while the data copied, the smaller monitor pulled up the footage.

There was no telling how long the Courier watched those warheads raze the desert, even after the holodisk popped out, alerting her it was ready to go. The footage looped and looped, the twinkly little lights extinguishing time and time again. It struck her at some point that the lights roving along the bottom of the screen were tons of cars, back when cars worked. She knew the general idea of traveling by automobile, but actually seeing it was mindblowing. Each little dot held a traveler, or maybe two or three.

The Courier stopped back and thought of all the random vehicles that lay scattered on the Long 15. At most, now they were barricades, or used for what little useful or valuable metal they had. Most were rusted out, overturned. It struck her that each chunk of abandoned metal had at one point contained people. Lovers, families, children. A better part of her morning was spent reliving that blast, and she finally picked up her shattered heart and put on her stoic face, prepared to talk to Mr. House.

"I'm very excited for you. You've done well. I've sent Victor to the safe, where he will reward you handsomely. Is there a place you'd prefer the caps?"

"The table is just fine," she said nonchalantly.

"Splendid. Now you must come downstairs, so that I may show you what I've created." Though his warm, hospitable tone was as it always was, House had a hint of craze on the edge of his voice. The Courier was almost afraid as she stepped into the elevator.

"What if logic would be the natural -hic- path intelligent beings of this universe follow in their thoughts, like a built in trail for -hic- everything to follow."

"Bah. I fold."

"Did we invent it, or did we find it? I'm going to -hic- assume it to be a natural part of our universe in this argument, though -hic- one could of course argue otherwise."

"All I've got's two pair. Genuis over there probably has a royal flush."

"Arcade," the Courier said, poking him in the arm. "Arcaaaaade."

"What would happen if we -hic- followed the trail and schematic...oh, I have a Royal Flush...where was I? that is logic to the close border of understanding the... truth about our -hic- universe?"

Everyone at the table groaned. The crowd cheered Arcade on.

The Courier piped up with, "This is a axiomatic argument based on logic, where you're..." she yawned. "... trying to tell me that logic isn't the answer."

"So it is." Arcade sighed, swimming in chips. "Next topic, then."

"I'm hungry."

The Courier was dumbfounded at the Mark II technology. Though Mr. House was praising the abilities he'd equipped his Securitrons with, and showing her a display of their power, she could only see the great fall of Vegas with every test missile launched. …."..will bring down ANY enemy. None will stand a chance against the impenetrable design with upgraded..." Even now the Mark I Securitrons breathed down the backs of the citizens who walked the strip. Who was Mr. House planning to go to war with, exactly, that he needed this "upgrade"?

She whispered as Mr. House prattled on and the Securitrons blew up their targets down on the range, "Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding."

"Arcade." The Courier said, as they stumbled back through Freeside. Dogs howled around them and although a few thugs leered, the mere presence of the King's dog trotting merrily beside the unsteady couple kept anyone from approaching.

"Hmmmm?"

"Who said, 'Peace cannot be kept by force. It can-'"

"...only be achieved by understanding. Albert Einstein. Great man."

"Who was he?"

"He was a scientist, oddly enough, pre-War. I'm d-hic- delighted. That you know who he is. Well apparently you don't, never mind. But you know a quote of his, not a bad start at all. Did you read a book of -hic- his?" Arcade tripped on the pavement, righting himself gracefully despite being very drunk.

"I...I don't know. I guess I must have. I just don't know when."

She turned to leave the dim basement, the Securitrons putting down their weapons and ceasing to move bought her no relief whatsoever. Once in front of the screen, the Courier realized she immediately regretted the upgrade. "Now, once the Platinum Chip is inserted back into the system properly, I may begin restoring the laser turrets as well as regulating my upgraded army. There is a slot in the console on your left."

"Question," the Courier said suddenly. Mr. House seemed caught off-guard.

"What is it?"

"Why do the Securitrons need to be upgraded?"

"You really are daft, and it isn't really your place as a lowly delivery girl to be asking me such questions. However, insert the chip and I'll humor you..."

Always humoring. Entertaining. Never explaining or justifying...

"Tell me first." Her hardened face was even more angry after seeing the world fall.

"Insolent girl! How DARE you!"

She plucked the chip from Boone's hat and held it tightly in her palm. She squeezed so hard the chip cut into her skin. Yelling now at the smiling face on the monitor, she retorted, "How dare YOU! You were there and saw what weapons can do. What makes you think that with an army of missile-launching robots, you're any different?"

"BECAUSE," Mr. House roared, "I am a VISIONARY! I keep Vegas out of dictator control, out of strict governmental regulations! THE CHIP IS MINE! Vegas is MINE and I shall run it as I see fit!"

"No, you won't," she gasped, tucking the chip firmly back into its pocket on the beret. The last thing you never see. "You did what you could to stop the warheads. But there's nothing more to save. You can't have Vegas, Mr. House. It belongs to the people. Not to you."

"Have it your way, you disappointing ingrate. And goodbye." The screen faded to black, and shots rang out.

Arcade snored so loud that the Courier, in the small tent with him, had to stuff a spare bedroll over her head to even drift off to sleep. After the Securitrons opened fire, she had bolted, Platinum chip in tow, and spent the rest of the day pondering what steps to take next. Though many things were unclear, one was certain; House controlling Vegas with those monstrous machines were out of the question. Anyone who may not have agreed had only to watch the footage of the earth's destruction.

Power was a great and terrible thing. Though she didn't really know the full extent of her own, the Courier had it. Power in words, her greatest forte. Power of knowledge. Power from being so admired, so well-liked wherever she went that people went out of their way to save her. That admirable, intellectual people like Arcade wanted to cut loose with her in the casino every now and then. She had other strengths too: freeing Benny and almost dying while doing it showed the vast, pure heart the Courier sported. Helping the Kings keep peace with the NCR, helping the Khans escape the false glory of Legion slavery.

She slept, bedroll on her face, Rex asleep at her feet, on the cold desert ground. Tomorrow's agenda? Speak to the NCR embassy. And find a way to once and for all take away the power that Mr. House was so close to achieving.


	14. Accipere Quam Facere Praestat

A ringing sounded in his ears, and even Boone's heavy steps were in slow motion. They rang through his ears like the last of the gunfire. So much carnage, and he was still alive. How?

The sun illuminated Cottonwood Cove, firing off the water so brightly that everything around Boone was white. His delicate eyes couldn't filter any other color except red. Red on the ground. He'd killed so many...since the woman left on the boat toward the Fort. But that was forever ago, it seemed.

He'd chosen to come here, die fighting as he was meant to. And at least a hundred blood-red-clad warriors had fallen under Boone. But the battle wasn't over. He pursed his blood covered lips and looked to the top of one of the buildings. Facing the sparkling, pure white water, nothing but a black silhouette could be seen.

It was the Centurion. A hero in battle, a bloodthirsty killer. The man was nothing but a great shadow as he rose to full height there on the rooftop. His large helmet fanned out over his head, a large throwing spear held upright in his hand. He didn't speak, but loomed over the illuminating light as though he were Death itself come to life. This was the only creature to ever challenge Boone just by appearing. His mere presence urged the man to move, stirred feelings in Boone that no one else ever could.

Boone threw his sniper rifle over his back, and moving so slowly, his legs like lead, lifted the shortsword he plucked from a corpse earlier. Now he ran at the Centurion. The latter rose to met the challenge, floating up into the sky, soaring down off the rooftop to land on his feet. But no warrior, no matter how he glorified killing, could match the agony of Craig Boone. There was no battle.

The Legion sword pierced the armor of the tall Centurion, causing him to freeze in place and gasp as Boone withdrew the sword, stabbing again. He never even looked into the Legionarie's hidden face; it was masked in shadow still. When the soldier withdrew the blade a second time, he backed up, a grim smile on his face. He wasn't happy to be alive. He was happy to kill, and to watch this man die.

The Centurion staggered in place, his large helmet bowed, hand clutching his seeping leather armor. Boone backed up another step, waiting for the victorious moment when the great hero would fall to his knees and succumb to death. Although the brightness behind them hid the man's face from view, Boone had enough imagination in his wrecked brain to savor the supposed look of horror.

One step, then another waver backwards, but the man held his ground for his last few moments on earth. Then something strange happened; in this slow, false-reality time speed, the hallowed whiteness on the battlefield dimmed, as though instant nightfall had hit. What happened instead were huge blue-grey stormclouds, filling the sky, hiding the sun.

This happened instantly, and Boone blinked in the sudden lack of light, the Centurion now showing as a man in red and gold, not a shadow of black. His arm was up, masking his face. With one hand, the tall yet slouched figure pushed the heavy gold helmet off his head, the signature headpiece falling so deliberately to the ground. Underneath, the face that stared at Boone had no grimace of horror. Instead, it was a beseeching look, one that asked, Why.

Under the helmet was a golden head. The sweaty hair framed the face of the Courier, blood now spilling from her mouth. The helmet finally hit the ground, and the girl fell to her knees, letting go of the throwing spear. It too clattered away, and still holding both hands over the sword wounds in her chest, she agonizingly, haltingly fell facefirst into the dirt. She was no more, and the world turned black with Boone still in it.

He snapped upright, sweating all over. The room was still black, stormclouds and blinding sun gone. Amid shudders, perhaps even a subdued sob, Boone realized that for the first time in seemingly as long as he could recall...he had dreamed of something besides Bitter Springs.


	15. Two Blonds Walk into Goodsprings

Aaron and Jesse were the names of the Kings members who had returned with Rex to the spot in the Mojave where I lay near death. They were the last people I wanted to say thank you to before heading back to Goodsprings. The pair lounged against the wall, pointed out to me by the white-suited King. As the leader of the gang had another bonding moment with his dog before he set off with me again, I sauntered to the young Kings.

They nodded at my advance.

"I just have to say thank you, personally, to both of you. I know what you did wasn't easy."

"No problem," Aaron said, slightly older of the two. He ran a hand through his greased hair. "When you're healthy, you seem to make things happen. And we knew the King wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."

"You two really took care of me. It was a long travel, needless to say a long stretch from Freeside. You even took care of bandaging my bullet wound."

"The Mojave is a trip, for sure. Not an adventure I ever hope to rep-bandaging your what?"

I paused, remembering the way I had been given a blanket, the way a canteen was held to my cracked, useless lips, and the way my wound had been cleaned slowly and meticulously. I was half-dead during all of it, but I hadn't been dreaming; for one thing, I heard Rex. For another, my wound was re-dressed when I woke up in the King's bed.

Aaron and Jesse exchanged looks. Aaron quipped, "We ain't doctors, we're Kings. All we did was find a merchant who sold us a Brahmin for a few hundred caps, and we strung you across it. Probably for the best you didn't wake up during the journey back, the Brahmin didn't smell too well at all."

I was dumbfounded, tilting my head in confusion as the two men chuckled about their epic journey into the Wasteland. Deciding not to dwell on it, I turned back to Arcade, motioning to him with a nod that I was ready.

A month without Boone had passed, and I still wore his beret. The time had ticked away excruciatingly slow for me, not knowing where he was, trying not to think of him every time I had a spare moment. From the day he walked away at Cottonwood Cove, I had made my path through over a week of desert while on the brink of death, being found by the Kings and brought back to Freeside. My time afterward consisted of primarily pissing off Mr. House, then getting friendly with New Vegas itself; avoiding House's temper tantrum and still holding the chip securely in Boone's beret, I had checked out all the casinos, gambled, spent a lot of time helping the Followers and at my side through all of it was Arcade Gannon.

He was everything I needed; an intellectual partner and a loyal friend. As confused over Boone and Benny as I was, he was out of the picture and happy to hear any 4am drunken sobs or rants or whatever the case may have been over the two men. In fact, Arcade was someone who offered physical support in a way I feel I've never had before. I definitely don't mean to say we did anything sexual, but he was a shoulder to cry on, or lean on, or sleep and drool and snore on. Personal space wasn't an issue with him, and I found the occasional rub on the back or pat on the head deeply comforting.

So we stayed in the tent, talking about entirely unrelated things that always led to the same topic; who was I? I told Arcade everything I knew; I knew I was buried in the Goodsprings graveyard and unearthed by Victor the cowboy robot. I knew I was a bookworm and had lived in a place that saw no small amount of snow. There was a young boy in my past named Liam. And I even told Arcade of the sinister voice that had repeated in my head at every turn since getting whacked with the machete. The one that told me I was going to suffer, told me I was going to be alone forever. This last part moved the researcher greatly, and he vowed to help me find the source of the voice, concerned that it was internal. I, however, felt differently. I felt that it belonged to someone quite specific, but I had no idea who.

While avoiding the certain wrath of Mr. House, Arcade and I decided a little "vacation" to the small town of Goodsprings wouldn't be a bad idea. It was the most obvious place to look for more answers about what happened to me before my memory was wiped. That, and we were getting cabin fever. Being cooped up with the Followers and a bunch of gripey gamblers is enough to make you want to set a deathclaw loose on the bunch and enjoy the show. Arcade, of a like mind, was somewhat of a wanderer and didn't mind the seclusion of the open road.

So our time not spent gambling, saving caps for our trip, and drinking, were spent inside his tent having one endless sleepover, talking about my past-never his, something he profusely avoided, and I wasn't one to pry-and plotting our Mojave adventures. The Followers were more than convinced I'd turned Arcade straight; our terrible habit of falling asleep drunkenly sprawled out all over each other couldn't have helped, and the fact that he spoke Latin to me as though I were someone he wooed didn't look good at all. But Arcade and I were comfortable in our strangeness, and despite the voice that whispered in my ear how alone I was and how Arcade would soon leave me in the same fashion as Boone and Benny, I was finding happiness again.

Goodsprings was not a short walk, so we packed accordingly. Promising to return the brilliant scientist to the skeptical doctors, my other blond and I set off into the Wasteland with enough guns, books, food, caps, and alcohol to start a small colony of alcoholic gunslingers. That same "feeling" that had led me to Vegas and allowed me to unveil the dictator-like plans that House had for the city was now telling me to go back to my origins. It was time to sleuth my way into my own past.


	16. Follow the Leader

I will scream if I have to live with this idiot Manny for one more day. I mean, he's an ex-Khan, if that tells you anything about how lowly and just dirty his thinking methods are. I don't care if he is best friends with Craig. I shouldn't be subject to live with someone so-

These were the only words of Carla's diary that Boone had read as he sifted through his old house. The book was then snapped shut and discarded, thrown on a counter-top, and he exited. It bothered him that the only words he read were about Manny, and not about him, but whose fault was it for prying?

Boone had honed in on his tracking skills the past month or however long it was, only stopping in Novac once the black-haired men found his mark, led by the cyber-dog. He had stayed for supplies and to enter the house, where he unwisely picked up Carla's journal, the one she had carried with her since they had met. Immediately after the half-paragraph he flipped to was read, he left the town.

Snipers lived lonely lives, knowing their way around the land and if the cause called for it, tracing their subject. At the moment he was far west of where he needed to be, walking the lonely 15 with his head down. Normally Boone would have stayed off the road, using more shrouded areas for cover as snipers tended to do, but something about the danger and exposed neck of this road appealed to his largely morbid side. If someone wanted to shoot him, let them shoot.

Every dream had been about her, in some way, shape, or form. Most of them included Bitter Springs, where the Courier was seen swept up in the gunfire opened on the Khans. Some were hard to remember, and in those cases Boone just woke up with an overwhelming sense of grief. The ones that didn't include Bitter Springs always had the same element; he was killing the girl. Why he had this particular vision remained cryptic. Perhaps it was due to what Boone had done to Carla. It could've been his own destructive, fucked-up brain. More than likely, though, at least to him, Boone was being punished for what he did.

Leaving her to deal with the Legion on her own. From a mountaintop, Boone had steadied his scope onto the Colorado river, seeing her slender body drift down with the current. Crimson had stained the water around her, and her eyes were peacefully closed. She drifted out of sight, out of his sniper scope, and Boone had sat wretchedly on the mountaintop, force-feeding himself so much guilt and misery that even he didn't know how he finally packed up and headed out hours later.

Though Boone was well aware of who he was following, his subdued senses didn't alert him to the fact that he was being followed, as well.

"Wait." My eyes glazed over, and I bit my chapped lip as Rex whined. Arcade looked up from the fire he was making. We were hidden well within a canyon wall, with a high vantage point; a perfect place to bed down for the night. The wall seemed to be the remains of some mysterious culture; cut into the red rock, there were obvious slats of rock forged into tables, fireplaces, even beds. Cave drawings adorned the inner areas, and the path to even enter had been steep and treacherous.

"Hmmm?"

"I feel like...I think we're going the wrong way."

"Goodspr-"

"I know we're heading the right way to Goodsprings, but I feel like we should backtrack or something. I don't know."

Arcade sighed. "Intuition, the bane of womankind." He stirred the fire now, Rex whining as though he sympathized with me.

"You stay here, I just want to...have a look around."

"Sure." Amicable Arcade, how I loved him.

Our weapons had been placed against the wall of the cavern, ready if we needed them, but not hindering us as we moved around the campsite. I reached for my usual handgun, then paused. One of my splurges with the mass earnings of casino caps was a beautiful, newly-made rifle that would've made Boone, or any ranged weapon user, drool. I really sucked at shooting ranged weapons, but the gun was too good to pass up. Deciding that now was as good a time as any to break it in, I slung it over my back and stuck my head out into the canyon. Above us there was a mesa, and it made far more sense to climb the six feet up, instead of the forty feet straight down, then poke around for an alternate way to the top of the mesa.

Rifle on my back, beret on my head, I lunged and grabbed at the smooth rock, finding crevices. If Arcade thought my dangling legs looked strange as I struggled with one weak shoulder, to pull myself up, he said nothing, which I appreciated. Heaving and grunting, I found other fingerholds, kicking my way over the lip of the mesa and landing on my belly at the top.

"Ooof," I said, winded, and fox-crawled forward, amazed at the view before me. Before I could properly get to my feet and enjoy it though, Rex stood in front of me, blocking my line of sight. "How did you..." I turned, noticing that about four feet away from the ledge was a neat trail that led right into the canyon dwelling.

I sighed, rolling my eyes, and stood. Rex, happy that I was now on two legs, leapt ahead, barking furiously. "Someone with a hat?" I inquired jokingly to myself, the dog ignoring my sarcasm and running like mad down through the canyon. "Rex!" I said, watching him disappear into tall Mojave grass and cactus. "Rex, get back here!" Goddammit, he was probably going to run after a mole rat that would lead him right to a Deathclaw cave or something.

Rex's barking though, concerned me. He communicated in a highly effective way, as did all dogs: most people are just too stupid to discern. He would never call this much attention to something as easy a target as a mole rat. Apparently I wasn't the only one who noticed, because Arcade had rounded the neat little hill I'd missed in seconds, wiping his hands on his pants as he squinted down at the dog.

"What's up with him?"

"I don't know. But I think it's something important. You stay here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I won't go far. If you hear me yell, come running."

Doubtful, Arcade stood in place as I jogged down the unlevel terrain of the mesa, making it a point to follow Rex. Even though I put a bit of distance between myself and the other blond, he could still be seen as a tiny dot behind me. We were still extremely high, and far from the road on this series of mountaintops. The dog was barking loudly, unceasingly, staring toward the faraway 15. I couldn't see a thing, but he must have smelled it, as the wind blew towards us. However, Rex could go no further without tumbling off the edge of the mesa, so he barked and whined and stomped in place, willing me to share in his sense of urgency.

I was without binoculars, but I had another idea. The rifle I purchased was scoped; I immediately shouldered it, trying to line up the sights. It was something I was utterly horrible at. Glaring down the shiny new lens, I could see nothing but a grey blur.

Suddenly and rather painfully, Boone's low voice could be heard in my ear, and I closed my eyes while holding the rifle, recalling the memory.

"Let me aim that for you next time."

"Or you could teach me how to use a scope, smartass," I had snapped back. We were trying to take out the Deathclaws in the Quarry, which Boone was succeeding at far better than I.

To my surprise, instead of snapping back, he had scooted close to me. Both of us were laying on our bellies on a smooth rock. Draping one arm around me, the trained soldier handed over his superior sniper rifle, our temples right next to one another's, and taught me how to properly manipulate the crosshairs.

"If the vertical and horizontal aren't parallel, adjust the bore sighter."

"Which way?"

"Whichever way it needs. Parallel now?"

My eyes slowly opened, his voice fading from memory. With Rex repeatedly yapping next to me, I went to my knees on the desert soil, holding my breath to seady my aim, scoping the road the way my sniper had trained me to do.

"Your crucifixion will be a warning for others. Our superior hounds have tracked you all the way from your little campfire outside our Fort. To someone who thinks they can infiltrate the camp of the Son of Mars, and free one who was sacrificed, crucifixion is just."

Goddamn, they thought he was the one who had raided their fucking fort and taken down whoever it was the Courier had taken down from their cross. He'd watched it all through his scope a full month ago. Boone was breathing heavily, a sword pressed to the back of his neck, his hands tied at his back.

The bastards had gotten him, and his only regret was that he didn't kill more than the twenty he did bring down. Apparently the Legion anticipated such a fight, which was why their tracking party was so large. Nails were being hammered into the large blocks of wood, a makeshift cross to be erected here on this desolate stretch of road.

His mouth bled, and Boone spat the red-tinted saliva at the boot of the Legionaire speaking, causing the latter to angrily kick the sniper in the face. Though riveted with the pain, Boone didn't flinch, remaining on his haunches with his hands tied too tight for comfort against his back. Thirty feet away, his rifle lay there uselessly. He was surprised he didn't feel more regret or fear of death, but instead all he could sense was anger.

"It is a worthy cross, for so worthy a foe. All enemies of Caesar must f-"

His speech rapidly faltered, and something splattered. Boone looked up confusedly, the headless corpse falling over heavily, like a sack of potatoes. His eyes widened as he looked around frantically. The rest of the Legion bore similar expression of confusion and shock. A familiar whistling, then half a Legate's torn face flew through the night sky.

A shoddy headshot, but it was a headshot nonetheless, and though Boone wanted to get up and run, he stayed low to the ground, leaning forward and closing his eyes so that he was blind to the chaos around him as more shots were fired and the Legion blindly fired back into the night, not understanding that they were being picked off by a sniper.

It couldn't be. They were too far ahead of me today, I traveled too slow to be this close to them. He wouldn't let himself hope. Hope was for fools. And so it was that the non-fool Craig Boone sat on his haunches on Interstate 15, trying to protect his head from bullets and shrapnel from exploding Legionaries, his hands bound and his eyes tightly shut, waiting either for death, or a pause in the gunfire.


	17. A FarSighted Sniper

The Legion were trained to stay and fight, yet several of the younger members had already turned to flee, wanting to keep their heads on their bodies. Around Boone, hell had broken loose and he was forgotten about. Though he wasn't hoping for anything, except for the possibility that a spare bullet would hit him, soon the shouts and yells subsided, and the only thing that could be heard were the heavy footfalls of the fleeing Legionaires, and then the sound of a growling dog, and another.

Boone looked up at this; to his left a Legion mongrel bared its teeth, looking in the direction of the sniper. Its fur was bristled, its eyes crazy. The man glanced from the dog to the mountain range, and there, thirty feet away stood Rex, his own fangs bared, his growls rising to match the other dog's. As Boone stood helplessly by, alone now except for the two alpha males. The dogs began to circle each other, and moved as one, jowls twitching, tails whipping back and forth. He turned his vision toward the area where the sniper had been. Even for Boone's strong eyesight, his rescuer was too far away for him to see clearly.

Keeping his eyes on the mountaintop, the growls increased, and just as Rex pounced, two figures appeared, running out of the canyon toward him. The almost-completely metal dog had certain advantages in a fight; his weight allowed him to knock the mutt to its back, his tough exoskeleton not suffering any damage. Undaunted, the latter snarled menacingly and defended, attacking back, snapping with a mouthful of nightmarish white teeth.

It was her. Boone hadn't caught a glimpse of her in weeks, relying on his tracking skills to maintain distance while keeping pace with the girl. She flew over the crevices in the canyon now, lithe as ever, familiar red beret perched on top of her head. Even from this distance he spotted her holding up the large scoped rifle, then sliding it on its strap over her shoulder. The gun dangled off her back as she ran resolutely toward Boone.

But she wasn't alone. Another figure, a male, trailed her, matching her quick pace. He was tall, lean and had a head of pale blond hair. Boone had never seen him before, but he watched as the Courier stopped and turned to him. She appeared to be speaking frantically, and the man put a hand on her arm. The girl pointed back toward the direction they had came, and in response to whatever her request was, the man nodded and put his hand briefly on her head in a reassuring way before departing back in the opposite direction, running at full speed.

Now she ran toward him again, and Boone realized that his hollow lack of hope had been immediately replaced with anger and vehemence. Beside him, Rex and Legion dog barked viciously, sinking their deadly teeth into each other, tearing hunks out of each other. Now another stray bolted away from the area where the Legion attacked, heading toward the Courier. Still tied down, he could only watch as the dog rushed the girl. The rifle slid effortlessly back into her hands and at this closer range she didn't hesitate to shoot, one bullet bringing the advancing animal down. Pausing to reload, she was then back at the open run and approaching Boone fast.

A yelp and howl alerted Boone that someone had won the fight beside him, and his head snapped to the side to see that thankfully it was Rex, his fangs embedded in the throat of the other animal, not bothering to stop shaking his head back and forth to dislodge the dog's blood flow.

Even as he turned his head away from the finished fight, all emotions including his blinding anger had vanished, and his stomach dropped into a pit as the tall, lean woman dropped to her knees in front of him. "Boone," she said with bated breath, before collapsing into a tight hug, her arms slipping under his and her head pressed to his chest. He could barely move his own arms, and doing so caused him great strain, but Boone nonetheless tried the same as he had that night in the dinosaur, wrestling with the physical bonds. It was to no avail.

She didn't notice this time either, too intent on embracing him. All Boone could do was bury his face into her beret, his eyes closing blissfully for a few moments, until the bloody breath of Rex invaded his nostrils, the dog happily licking Boone's cheek. Now he grimaced and made a scoffing noise, trying to tear his head away from the suffocating death and halitosis scent. Rex was undaunted, wagging his tail happily. The Courier pulled back and noticed the look of disgust as Boone fought to get away from the animal, and she giggled, pulling her fist up to her mouth to hide the smile in case the unamused Boone gave her a look of disgust.

The man in white had returned; apparently he had been asked to fetch a first aid kit, because that's what he carried in one hand as he ran down the hill. In his other arm was a large butcher knife. And now, as he approached, the Courier pushed Rex out of the way, leaving her with a clear view of Boone. The two looked at each other, the girl's amused smile slowly leaving her face, a contemplative and unreadable look taking over. Boone's look of annoyance at Rex's slobber also disappeared, leaving him to stare at the girl with an equally unreadable look.

Slowly, the intense look faded from her face, and a smile crept onto her pale lips. Boone strained against the ropes again, and the blond man reached them. Without speaking the man dropped the kit and brandished the knife, ducking to his haunches behind Boone to free him. The Courier didn't even look away from Boone to her friend, still smiling.

Then something amazing happened, something that hadn't happened in ages. A hint of a smile slid onto Boone's hardened face. Not the grimace of a smile he wore while bringing down a Red, not the false smirk he wore in dreams of his own demise. It was a faint remnant of a Boone that didn't exist to the Courier, a genuine glint of thankfulness visible in his dark eyes. When Boone felt the jerk of rope, and the sudden release of pressure from his wrists, his arms immediately came from behind and he didn't even rub his sore arms or pay any heed to the fact that his circulation had been cut off for so long needles prickled his digits. Instead, his hands moved to the Courier, and he pressed them to the sides of her face, pulling her closer. One hand rose up to knock off the beret. When he did so the long ponytail she kept hidden in the hat fell to the side. He had a hard time seeing up close, so Boone pulled her even closer, squinting.

His last look at her, she was on the edge of passing into the shadow, and now here she was glowing. Boone brushed his hand through her hair, passing over the area where the machete busted open the skin. There was no mark. The cuts and scrapes on her face had healed. Blood and sweat and dust didn't cover her like it had when he had re-dressed her wounds. In dreams she had died by his hand. Boone had killed her with everything from guns to swords to axes. Dead empty eyes had stared at him from nightmares. She looked just as healthy as he, if not healthier, and Boone finally spoke. "You're okay."

"Yes, are you?" she replied, pulling his hand away from her face.

"You sniped them." He didn't intend for it to, but his tone had hints of disbelief.

"I had this First Recon guy teach me," she replied, her smile widening. The blond man lingered, stepping back and pulling Rex with him. He smiled from behind Boone at the girl's words, though Boone didn't see.

"First Recon guy?" Boone asked. "I didn't see you traveling with him. He must have left like a prick."

"Yeah..." she said, and for some reason her voice was small and throaty, as though there was a lump in it. "Too bad he isn't around. I'd punch him in the mouth for doing that."

"He would deserve it," Boone said in an even lower voice.

"No, he wouldn't," she replied, and scooped up her discarded beret. Stuffing her ponytail back underneath the hat, she stood. Boone rose to meet her, and they both turned to survey the carnage; dead Legionaires, a half-erect cross, blood and brains splattered around. Ever tactical, Boone mused, "Several of them ran away. They'll come back once they get some nerve. We're not safe."

"It's too bad we don't have a sniper to keep lookout, wouldn't you say, Arcade?" the Courier asked the blond man, who was petting Rex as he too stared at the littered landscape.

"Oh yes," he replied, pushing up his glasses. "I hear snipers are hard to come by though, and they tend to be flighty."

The Courier laughed and Boone scowled at the man named Arcade. The girl grabbed Boone's limp hand, which was at his side, and squeezed. "What do you say? Lookout for the night? Just like old times?"

"I've got your back," Boone said in a closed voice, his own guilt for abandoning rushing back to him, dimming the happiness he'd felt while smiling at the girl earlier.


	18. Meet Me at the Mesa

I lay on the canyontop grass on my stomach, my upper torso propped up with my elbow. My chin was in my hand, a dorky smile on my face. My legs kicked up behind me in a slow scissor motion, bending at the knee. It was night, and the sky was beautiful, crisp and clear. Hours ago, Arcade and I had rushed down this canyontop after Rex, where I had taken out a fair share of Legionaires. We were back up in the ancient canyon dwelling, where Arcade was preparing dinner for three.

Though I was not stupid in medicinal terms, Arcade's knowledge far surpassed mine, and so he was the one giving the final inspection to Boone. While I grinned like an idiot, Arcade gave him the once over and unceremoniously jammed a stimpak into Boone's arm. This caused a stream of curses that I haven't really yet matched to emanate from my sniper. When we ascended the hill, the four of us-me, Arcade, Boone, and Rex-we did so as a group, walking side by side. On the far left trotted Rex, beside him Boone. Boone was to my left, Arcade on my right, and maybe I was imagining things, but Boone didn't look even slightly happy.

I didn't, after the night in Novac, feel it was fair of me to gripe to Boone about his sour disposition. I was too happy to see him to press the issue, and while Arcade descended into the cavern to prepare the dwelling for an extra sleeper, I stood on the grassy knoll above him and handed my new rifle over to Boone. He didn't say much else to me, and I got the vibe he wanted to be left alone, so he used the excuse of nesting and awaiting the return of the Legion to stay on top of the mesa.

Bugging Arcade was no good; when the man cooks and preps, his attention is dedicated wholly to the task, and after restlessly antagonizing him for a few minutes, he'd fluttered his hands at me. "Shoo, shoo. Why don't you go make nice with your sniper while I prepare dinner?"

My shoulders slumped. "He's busy scoping. Boone's all business."

Arcade shrugged, fanning the campfire. "Doesn't mean you can't scope a little yourself."

I giggled, and he looked at me pointedly. "Get out of here, you pervert."

We both laughed and I clambered up the side of the precipice my way, avoiding the trail. And here I had laid for probably ten minutes on my belly, watching the sniper. I knew now it was he that saved me at the Fort. He had somehow tracked me, followed me, across the Mojave and sent Rex to the Kings. While awaiting their pickup, he cleaned my wounds, forced water down my throat, willed me to be alive. He hadn't said this, but his tracking made it obvious. My memory was faint, but it was there; a tender, strong hand cupping my neck, gently putting the water holder to my parched lips. Pouring water into the gunshot wound, cutting the arm off my Legion outfit and using the cleaner fabric underneath as a bandage.

He was on his stomach as well, eight feet in front of me, positioned to my right. Boone was intent on glaring down the scope of the rifle I had given him, and its sights were set to the road. From here he could probably easily see the area we left earlier, complete with downed cross. I had to run ahead to even get it in my line of vision, but I wasn't a trained sniper. My slow clambering hadn't broken his concentration, and neither did my subdued presence. The light was solely moonlight, washing out the desert and casting shadows over me. Boone, out of the shadow of the canyon, was illuminated. He propped the gun on several rocks, keeping the scope close, a look of deep concentration on his face.

He stirred suddenly-barely-and I ducked my head, wondering if he'd seen me. But no, Boone's now hungry gaze flickered from his rifle to the faraway road, and then back to the rifle. Without hesitating, he fired, then twice more. I didn't know what he was shooting at, but his narrowed eyes and disappearing smirk told me he hit every mark. Now appeased, he casually lowered his shoulders, sinking back down into sniper position.

Risking his wrath, I crawled forward on my stomach, making only the faintest rustling noises on the soft ground. Here tall grass blew with the evening desert wind, carrying with it daisy petals. They fluttered around prettily, the white slivers reminding me of the snow from my memory, from the snowglobe. One landed on my lips and I blew it off, still slipping forward towards Boone. I knew he was fragile, I've known that as long as I've known him. You have to handle him in a very specific way. But sometimes my stubbornness and will to do whatever I want overrides the part of my brain that says "Leave Boone alone, he's in a mood."

The back of his head was to me, and I crept closer, until I was only a foot or so away. The thought of snatching Boone's beret off his head came to mind, but I didn't want to get shot again. So instead, I reached out and hesitantly touched his ear. Boone's head snapped to the side and he turned on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbow.

"What the fu-" His anger disappeared somewhat at realizing it was only me, but then he glared anyway. "What in the hell are you doing?"

I rolled from my stomach to my side to face him, propping my head up with my hand, which rested on my temple. Some circuits of my brain must not have been working properly, because I couldn't think of anything to say. This did not sit well with Boone-it never did. He continued to pointedly glare at me. Not really believing what I was doing, but unable to stop myself, I reached out again and this time brushed his lowered brow with my hand.

Boone, using one elbow to prop him up as he lay on his side, grabbed my hand with his. I feel that it was instinctive, because as soon as he realized what he did, he eased up his grip on my hand. Still holding it, he pressed, "Don't you have dinner to cook with Arcade?"

"Thank you for helping me, at the Fort." I said. "Thank you for helping me get back to Freeside. I thought you left for Novac."

Apparently my gratitude opened Boone up to being a little more chatty. Bringing my hand down from his face, he put it on the ground between us, for a moment holding my hand with his before withdrawing it. He didn't turn away though, so we both lay there facing each other under the stars as he replied, "I did go to Novac, I stopped by after those Kings showed up. I didn't know where else to go, figured you'd be safe in the city. Shortly after I got there..." he trailed off, and that visible pain flickered through his eyes, before he said, "...I realized I didn't need to be there."

I wondered what had happened in the town. Something had, that was for sure. Tight-lipped Boone was not the person to pick for answers, though. The awkward silence that ensued was no good, so I carefully chose my next question, "What did you need?"

Now he looked away, looked past me into the desert, searching for something. In a defeated manner, Boone shrugged. "I needed..."

"Your friend?" I asked, surprised at my own saddened voice. The tone caused Boone to look away from his celestial searching and instead search my face.

"Yeah."

I had been through too much in the past month to really care about crying anymore, at least it felt that I was exhausted from it. All the drunk nights with Arcade had taken care of the waterworks, but I was still an emotional wreck. A huge weight rose in my chest, which I tried to shake off, in my mind saying what's wrong with you, Boone is right here, he followed you, he saved you. Why do you feel so hurt right now?

And then another voice, sinister. I'll make sure you're always alone. Always.

Boone had promised me I wouldn't be alone. Arcade had promised the same thing. One of the two was a mere foot away from me, staring at me. The other was close by, creating a delicious meal for all of us. Yet I believed that voice. It was no use, I felt lonely despite being surrounded.

And with this knowledge and grief in my chest, I didn't cry, but dropped my elbow, abandoning my relaxed pose and curling into a ball on Boone. I guess you could consider it a hug, but it was more of a leeching grasp, and I found that my chest was so tight I couldn't breathe as I embraced him.

He had tensed up, naturally, at my sporadic "Hug Boone like a crazy person" endeavor. And my tackling move had drove his elbow off balance, causing him to hit his back on the dirt. I didn't stop clinging like a lost child as Boone floundered to pull his own arm out from under me, since I half-lay on it. As my head was ducked into his chest, he did something that I didn't expect. Both arms now free, Boone did a very un-Boone like gesture of lifting my chin upward with two fingers. It wasn't a commanding grip, like I would've expected. It was gentle and soft, the way he had treated me when I was passed out in the Mojave.

Now he pulled my face upwards and in a very resolute tone said, "The only thing that would keep me from following you around this desert is a bullet in the head. I don't know why, but I just can't...be.." Boone trailed off, either confused by what he couldn't be, or unable to say what he couldn't be. My eyes were huge, and I had the demeanor of a hypnotized animal as I watched him internally struggle with the words. He had forgotten that my chin was still being held up by his hand, and now his fingers slid lazily downward, trailing my throat.

"DINNER!" bellowed Arcade from below us, breaking the spell, and I jumped. Boone's slack gaze was replaced by his usual disgruntled mask, and I sat up, moving away from him. Rising to his feet, he first plucked up the rifle, and then extended his hand to me. I stood and yelled back across the canyon angrily, "Wouldn't MISS IT FOR THE WORLD!"


	19. Are We There Yet?

"Liam," I pondered, watching the latter haphazardly dissect an insect. He sat at a makeshift table with several other boys, their heads all bowed together, intently poking and prodding with the most delicate of hands.

"Its eyes are buggy-funny!" Liam chirped in response, then turned his head to me.

I smiled at him in the dim light, not being able to get a grasp on our surroundings. There was Isaac, the troublemaker, Elijah the brainiac, Alex, the clown. All of them were five or six, all of them were intrigued with the bug we found on our wanderings.

"What?" Liam said, his assertive tone not unkind. Seeing that I was reclining on the floor watching the group, he put down his tool and dropped to his knees by me. I stared at him for a moment, realizing this was someone I loved more than anything. I knew him unlike anyone else: he was squeamish, intelligent, and had the darkest sense of humor any five-year-old ever sported. Come to think of it, he reminded me of Arcade.

"Do you think it's true what he says? Do you think I'll be alone forever?"

Liam's big blue eyes widened, and he sat slumped over on the floor, not answering.

"Come on Liam. You're not going to leave me, are you? You guys are my friends."

"We...didn't want to leave you," Liam responded in a heartbreaking tone.

"Yeah!" snapped Isaac from the dissecting table. "We had to." The firmness in his tone caused me to blink away tears.

"Why did you have to?"

"He made us go away." Isaac usually took control of conversations, leaving Liam to scowl.

"Who is he?"

Now the boys all paused from their scientific research and stared at me. Liam stared as well. These children had a bond with me, all of them, although I had no idea what it might have been. Their simple, innocent lack to understand why I asked such obvious questions burned deep throughout the room, and finally it was quiet Elijah who responded, "The man with the white eyes."

"And the axe."

"The fire man."

"Fire...man?"

"I believe she's referring to a pre-War public service career, firemen were workers who put out fires, easily enough. Though why she's talking about them in her sleep baffles me. It could just be that she's dreaming in a pre-War book. From what we've deduced, she read a lot of them."

I looked away from the boys; the voice of Arcade was loud and clear. Sitting up, the room spun, the children disappearing from view, fading into black, and then the blurry faces of Boone and Arcade were in front of me, both staring intently.

"W...what?" I said, near hysterics, feeling nothing like I had in the calm, laidback dream.

"You're okay," Arcade rushed, putting a hand on my head and running it down the side in a comforting pet. He saw the pain in my eyes and said knowingly, "Liam?" I nodded, and he pulled forward, embracing me. Boone stiffened abruptly, and I clutched at Arcade's jacket. "Liam told me...he told me they had to leave."

"They?" Arcade's arms were reassuring, and Boone stood, backing away from us. My eyes were closed, but I could sense him leave our side to go stand with his eyes on the horizon.

"There were more of them. Kids. I don't..."

"Don't get upset, here." Arcade pulled back and put his hands on my knees. "What we should do is have you write down the dream, to put in our records." Fumbling around with his pockets, he added, "If you write it in a journal, you're more prone to remember these things. If nothing else we can use it to piece together your memor-"

"It wasn't a memory," I said in a strained voice, even as Arcade withdrew a weathered pad and pen from his coat. "It was..."

"Yes?"

"I...was talking to them after whatever happened, happened."

"Whatever happened?"

"Something tragic. Something that I didn't want to happen, happened. Because of that man. The...man with white eyes, the fireman."

"You realize you're not making any sense at all."

"Yes. Give me the notepad."

"Are you going to be okay? Need anything? Water, cola, vodka?"

"No thank you, dear. I think writing this is a good idea. It'll make more sense later."

"Ah. Well in that case, if you don't mind, I'm going to go back to sleep. Still have plenty of time before sunrise. Wake me if you need me." Arcade's bedroll was in such close proximity to mine all he had to do was scoot a foot away and lay back down. He pulled the covers over his head. I wrote furiously, scratching noises and the crackling of the fire the only noises for a few minutes.

I was so intent on retelling my...vision? dream? that I didn't even pay attention to Boone, who stood by the fire grimly, anger shrouding his vision once more. My head was bowed, my back propped up against a large rock, and I continued to write like a madwoman. Several minutes and several pages later, after Arcade's soft snoring and babbles of when we get an unexpected result... that is not useful for our purposes,

…..whatever philosophical debate he was feeling at the moment, Boone spoke up.

"It doesn't look like you were too lonely while I was gone."

"What?" I had no idea what he was talking about; writing consumed my entire being at the moment. I looked up at him, standing with his back to me.

"Arcade is a good guy. Takes care of you."

"Yes, he's fantastic." I agreed, puzzled as to why Boone sounded so hostile.

"Not like you need anyone else, he's got a way with words and seems to know you so well."

Now his tone irritated me. "What is there to know? I've got about three months of memories to go off of. Before that it's-"

"Memories that you obviously don't want to share."

"You're one to talk, you know that!" I slammed the pad onto the ground beside me, fumbling like an idiot to unwrap myself from the covers, seeing Boone turn toward me as I finally stood and stomped over to him.

"You tell me your wife's dead, you don't even tell me how, maybe there's a hope and we could go and find her I say, you pitch a fucking fit and tell me not to ever mention it again. If I have secrets, I'm not the only one, and can you really blame me for confiding them in someone who doesn't seem to hate me every time I breathe the wrong way? And if you REALLY want to know, I don't know who Liam is, or who anyone is, he's just a little boy that keeps reappearing in my dreams! There, big huge secret is out!"

Rex whimpered from his dream nearby. Boone rounded on me, as I knew he would. Even the deathclaws in the vicinity turned tail and fled for want of better company as the sniper's venomous voice rose in pitch. "Okay, yeah. If that's how it is, I don't blame you for confiding in someone who doesn't hate you. It's not like I tracked you halfway across the desert, not like I ever wanted to be around you again. As long as we're having a little family moment here, I killed Carla."

I froze. If Boone's voice had awoken Arcade, the man opted to continue to feign sleep with a blanket over his head. The fire snapped. Reflected in Boone's black eyes, the flames were a bright orange color. "I didn't have any other choice, I tracked down the party that took her, and there were too many of them. I killed my wife. Anything else we need to discuss?"

I took a step back. "Boone, I..."

"Drop it." He turned his back to me abruptly, and I felt like crawling into a Radscorpion nest. There's really no way to process something like that, no matter how much you think there is. There was nothing for me to say, but I risked his temper for one last question: "You're...not going to get mad and leave again, are you?"

"Of course not," Boone said defensively.

Sighing, I turned away. We were only a few miles outside of Goodsprings. Wondering if this journey was going to prove fruitful, and if it would, what it would even help, I defeatedly clambered back into the sleeping bag. As Boone refused to sleep, standing guard over the fire, I rolled over into a ball, Arcade pulling his own blanket off his head to offer me an arm.


	20. What's Latin for Eureka?

The earth changed over time. Yes, the War had changed it forever in the course of a few hours, but that wasn't a change the earth put upon itself. Man forever altered the ebb and flow of nature in a disaster so monumental it made the very foundation of humanity shudder and falter, falling from everything it had built to retreat pathetically underground. Using that earth which they helped destroy, to protect themselves, what scant remnants of humanity breathed did so away from the sun, while above, the earth continued changing.

Despite everything, life thrived in its quiet, mysterious way. Grass grew, rain fell. Over centuries Nature lost none of its splendor, while everything humans had made that remained standing slowly rotted away, losing every bit of its splendor. Animals gave birth, the sun rode the horizon as it always did, keeping a tender eye on the now-torn up blue dot that patiently, molded itself into something different than what humans had done to it, restored itself, re-aligned its rhythms, and bloomed once more.

Although not comparable on any universal scale, the same timeless nature applied to the human heart. Our pain and suffering, though felt instantaneously, can last for ages. Though we will never be the same, we've been so altered by the wrongdoings against us-even if we are the ones that did them-we can repair and adjust, slowly. Slowly.

The world before the Great War is an unfathomable shadow, something alien to us, that we will never be able to fully understand, something we can only look back on and wonder, dream about. All we have left is what's in front of us. But just like our slow-moving and patient planet, changes within one human heart very dear to me, were slowly arising.

Boone appeared and stood beside me, looking over Goodsprings.

"About last night..." He wasn't one for words. I turned to him, feeling a serenity unmatched save by the underwater vision of Liam, when I thought I was dead.

"You don't have to apologize. And I don't think you hate me, Boone." The stress in my voice was obvious. "I just..." missed you more than you'll ever know.

"Well..." he continued in his never-ending loss for words. "..Good. I don't."

We stared at each other for some time. Awkward silences seemed to be a recurring theme between us these days. I didn't mind; it wasn't any worse than his scathing remarks.

I had filled Boone in on our "vacation" quest. To uncover my past, or anything related to it, that we could. He was eager to help, something that warmed my heart. Arcade had spent the morning relaying what we did know to Boone, something I thanked him for. Under Boone's intense stare, I found myself falter whenever I mentioned my past. I don't know why. Either way, once the camp had been packed up, our first stop was Doc Mitchell's.

"Where the hell was that shack?" I muttered as we crossed a road in the small town. "I don't remember it being this far..."

"I believe that's it," nodded Arcade, pointing in the direction of the familiar structure. Victor's place, as it were.

"Right," and we crossed the road with more intensity in our step.

"Wait." Boone paused behind Arcade and I, and we turned. "If you got on bad terms with House back in Vegas, don't you think there's a chance that retard machine will attack us?"

"One way to find out." Mr. House and his cowboy didn't scare me anymore. After the temper tantrum he pulled when I refused him the chip, his "power" was a joke. Just what to do about it though, I wasn't sure. Hence a mini-vacation to Goodsprings.

As though he'd heard Boone, Victor exited through the door suddenly, and gunfire rang out. Pulling my own gun even as Arcade pulled his, both of us moving in perfect synchronization, Victor fell and bounced off the hard ground, short-circuiting. Both blond heads turned to look at the sniper. Boone had a genuine half-smile on his face, so trigger happy he'd fired before Victor's 9mm ever had a chance to aim. As Arcade and I stared at him incredulously, Boone shouldered the rifle. "Well butter his butt and call him a biscuit!" he said pseudo-cheerfully (uncanny really, if you know Boone), then, still not paying any attention to mine and Arcade's looks of shock, he sidestepped us and went to the fallen robot, kicking him happily. "So long, biscuit!"

A few minutes later, we stood inside, eyes adjusting to the dim light. "Look for anything..."

"Victor brought you to me in just the clothes you were wearing. I don't know if there was anything else you had on you, but he'd know. He's still in his shack down there." the doctor had said.

"Anything that a robot shouldn't have..." Which was everything inside this once-occupied house. The four of us each took a corner and began tearing the place apart. Boone took my beret and held it to Rex, who sniffed it, barking happily. Understanding what his friend wanted him to do, the Cyberdog began stuffing his nose in highly unlikely places; toilets, ashtrays, anywhere to find my scent. I was tearing through the desk. Arcade sifted through papers and magazines that lay strewn all over the floor.

"Here, this is probably invaluable evidence," he quipped, holding up a half-rotted piece of women's lingerie. Boone's glare was lost in the darkness of the shack, and I laughed.

"What about the woodwork?" Boone pointed out, eyes moving around the dark shack. "It seems recently patched. If he were going to hide anything of yours, that'd be the best place."

"Have at it," I said, emptying the desk. "Although I don't know why he would go through such an effort."

"It really makes sense, from Mr. House's viewpoint." Arcade spun the lingerie on his finger. It slid off and flew across the room, hitting Boone in the back just as he tore a board from the wall with his bare hands. Looking as though he wanted to beat Arcade's head in with the board, Boone glared while the latter continued, "He had great plans for you, or so he kept telling you, correct? By alienating you from whoever it is you were and sort of manipulating you into being his star worker, his flesh and blood highway support, there was so little chance of you running away. Who would you run to? Where? You were no one's except his. I mean, he certainly wanted to exploit your lucky loss of memory. I'm certain he saw it as a stroke of luck and being the opportunist he is, programmed Victor to hide or destroy anything else you would've been carrying."

I sighed. What was I looking for, anyway? I could run across something of mine and not even recognize it. Boone was still furiously pulling apart boards.

"If I didn't know better, sniper, I would assume you just have a personal hatred for the machine and want to destroy his dwelling."

Taking Arcade better than I knew Boone ever could, he replied, "Biscuit doesn't have a dwelling, biscuit is dead outside."

My laughter was interrupted by Rex, who barked at me, wagging his tail.

"Yes, I know I have my scent boy, I'm me. That's not what we're looking for."

Rex barked again, and then moved to Boone. Boone noticed this and paused in his destruction of Biscuit's home. The dog jumped, putting his front paws on one of the walls, scratching and whimpering to Boone hopefully. I stood, crossing the tiny floor, and Arcade turned as well.

The three of us were looking at a piece of wall that didn't match. The boards Victor used crossed the house horizontally, but here, nailed up haphazardly, were a short series of boards nailed vertically. They shaped a rectangle.

"Eureka." I said triumphantly.

"That's Greek, not Latin," Arcade breathed.

Boone muttered a very non-Latin curse.

Three as one, we dove into the rectangle, pulling boards apart, Arcade smartly fishing out a crowbar to aid us in pulling the wood away. After the flurry of annhilation, during which Rex barked excitedly, we stepped back, a man on each side of me. There was a hole in the wall, and in the hole sat a harmless looking bag.

My hands trembled as I reached down, taking it. It was a large over-the-shoulder bag, a rather shabby one, simple but pretty. The fabric fell away as I backed up, hands shaking, trying to pull its contents out. On my left, Boone kicked open the shack door, letting the sunlight stream in. Our heads together over my purse, I reached in and pulled out from its stuffed pockets, an old book.

"Either Biscuit sure likes book bags, or we've found ourselves something great."

"This is mine," I said, brimming with excitement. "This is mine, I can feel it." I clutched the bag, and the book, to my chest. "Let's not open it here. Let's...let's go to the saloon."

"Unveiling your past over lunch, quaint." Arcade held onto my arm, and I turned to smile at Boone. His face was lighted up in the shadow of sunlight, and he nodded. "Off we go," he said, putting a hand on my back.

Nobody gives a shit about you, and no matter where you go, I'll find you.S


	21. Time Flies, but not Memory

If Trudy thought it strange that I, along with my three companions, took up a booth and covered the entire thing in what probably looked like useless junk, sorting it out and excitedly picking over each piece, she didn't say so. Instead, because (although even the bartender knew I was a little nutty) I was a trusted friend to the town, we got free lunch. Arcade and Boone dug into the food with no problem, but my stomach was full of too many butterflies to touch anything.

On the dusty wooden table, we arranged the items from the bag neatly, in little stacks. There were four books; all old, pre-War, but painstakingly glued together by hand. Though they were in poor condition, the titles were all legible: Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, A Little Princess, and Heidi. I had no idea what any of them were. Both men asked me if I remembered reading them, and I was forced to slowly shake my head. Nothing stirred. At my expression, Arcade had responded, "Tempus fugit, non autem memoria." Though I smiled at his hopefulness (he was intent on teaching me fluent Latin), Boone, not understanding and associating the old language with Caesar's Legion, shifted restlessly.

Also laid out on the table was a plain wooden hairbrush, a drawstring bag containing several hundred caps, a curiously beautiful ring made of green and white beads, an unfruitful notebook (only several meaningless doodles adorned the pages) a small receipt booklet of Mojave Express deliveries and pickups, a matchbook, mentats, a small antique compact mirror, a rolled up computer magazine, an ammunition tin (filled with 10mm shells) and a strangely large collection of pens.

There were three additional items in the bag, and these stood out by far as the most "key" …. one was ironically a key. Another was a metal-encased holodisk with no label or title. The last was something that I hadn't put down since seeing it: a picture of me and Liam. This last artifact was stunning to all three of us, simply because of how different I looked.

The boy was standing, knee deep in snow. I knelt by him, both hands on his shoulders, leaning over so that we both fit into the picture. I was wearing the ear muffs I told Boone about what seemed like years ago. My hair was unbelievably long, down as I never wore it and hitting my elbows. Though it was snowing, I wore a dress and dark overcoat, a scarf wrapped around my neck, the outfit being completed with stockings and furry boots that were all but hidden in the thick white snow.

"Strange to see you without that damn beret," Arcade had said from the other side of the booth, his jests now only causing Boone to glare for several seconds, instead of several minutes.

The broad-shouldered man sat nearest the window, to my right. Rex was somewhere underneath us, gnawing on the Bighorner bone Trudy insisted on gifting him. As we hunched over the picture, Boone's arm had moved to grip the back of the booth seat, looking in a way as though his arm was around me. I wondered if he even noticed, or if he had used the fact that I chose to sit next to him instead of Arcade against the other blond, flaunting. Then again, he probably just found the stretching of his rifle arm relaxing, and I was overreacting. And annoyed that I was even thinking thoughts of why Boone did what he did when I was confronted with things so much more important, I turned my focus away.

Liam wore earmuffs and a hat, his sprite-like face barely visible beneath all the layers. He was dressed for heavy snow as well, and both of us were smiling brightly. Taking the picture out of its little metal frame, I discovered that there was writing on the back. In very neat letters, someone had written, "Hope all is well. Remembering Liam, -Anna and Ronald K."

Arcade had his own notepad out, and wrote down "Ronald, Anna, Liam K." He scribbled more notes that I couldn't read, as they were in Latin. As I looked away from the table and turned the picture over and over, Boone reached for something. I slapped the top of his hand.

"My stuff."

"Don't do that."

"I have stuff!"

Still with his arm nonchalantly around the back of the booth, Boone raised an eyebrow.

"Yes indeed, you do," Arcade remarked, waving the holodisk. "This must have been very important to you, that it was so well-protected. Whatever is on it is I feel, invaluable."

"And unreachable," Arcade growled from the saloon's terminal. I slouched against a wall, Boone leaning arms crossed against the doorway. "The code on this is far too advanced. It's been encrypted as far as I can see, over a thousand times. If I tried to break the code I think it would melt this computer. Metaphorically, of course," he added, pushing up his glasses. "You were a natural with computer science before your little friend Benny, it seems. The one person who may know what to do with this is Emily, back at the Fort. I don't want to risk it attempting here, unless by some miracle you recall the-"

"I have no idea what might be on that thing, but if Emily can find out, then that's where we need to be." Shouldering my new bag, I realized that I missed Vegas anyway. The lights, the crowds, the drunken gambling with Arcade. Besides, not one to run away from problems, I figured it was time to settle a score with Mr. House anyway.

"Home, here we come," said Arcade briskly, ejecting the holodisk and putting it back in the hard metal case.

Home, I thought. Where is home...

"Home," Boone echoed, and I looked sharply at him. He had a strange, forlorn look in his eyes, indicating if I knew him at all, that he was thinking the same thing I was.S


	22. Dickens by Firelight

"Ah, what the hell," Arcade said, dropping the notepad and re-situating himself on his pile of sleeping equipment. On an unmarked spot of land in the Mojave we camped, returning to New Vegas. It was dark, and by the light of the campfire Boone, Arcade and I each had one of my old pre-War books in hand, reading. Arcade had taken Oliver Twist, I had Heidi, and Boone chose Great Expectations.

"Sure you don't want to read this one?" Arcade had asked minutes earlier, waving A Little Princess in Boone's face. Boone had responded by rolling his eyes and jamming his back up against a rather uncomfortable-looking rock, forgoing the blankets and bedroll, grabbing the book. I sat cross-legged by Rex, who slept, not worried about literature or princesses.

When we'd first curled up with the books, Arcade insisted on taking out his notepad and jotting down notes about the story, certain the plot or themes would come into play in discovering my past. The 'what the hell' he uttered was his defeat of being studious. Like a true bookworm, he'd piled on the blankets and now sat snug and cozy with Oliver Twist.

With the three of us having our noses stuck in the books, not a sound could be heard but the crackling of the fire. I looked up from the first chapter of Heidi, first to Arcade, whose eyes scanned over the old typefont impossibly fast, then to Boone a few feet away, who was holding the book up to his nose. As I looked, he squinted, widened his eyes, rubbed his temple, then held the book very far away, stretching out his arms. I had been so enraptured in starting my story I forgot that Boone's vision didn't allow him the luxury of reading.

I tucked Heidi away, scooting over by Boone, and held out my hand for the book. He looked at me angrily for a moment (I was in his bubble) but I just smiled at him, hoping that I looked reassuring. He glanced from my open hand to the book, then back to me, realizing my offer, and slowly handed the book over.

"I got to there," he said tightly, pointing at the second paragraph of the page. I nodded, trailing my eyes down to his finger mark, then Boone settled against the rock, his eyes trained on me. Facing him, I read aloud, "Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea."


	23. Betsy's Revenge

Camp McCarran was only a day shy of Vegas, a day closer to "home" as Arcade had called it. The surrounding area was thick with Fiends, but they kept their distance as we warily crossed the ruins to the fort. I had hoped that in addition to buying supplies for the Followers (as they selflessly housed me up for the drunken month I spent recovering in Arcade's tent) I could discuss where NCR stood on the Hoover Dam matter. Traveling through the desert you get a lot of opinions, which is fine, but I prefer to form my own opinions instead of blindly agreeing with others.

So we entered, unpacked, and ate a modest dinner with some of the NCR troopers. The First Recon unit were stationed there as well. Boone remained oddly silent to them, though. If there was one group of people I would expect him to open up slightly around, it was the red berets. However, my sniper seemed more thoughtful than usual while being in the camp, something I left him to. At dinner, the Captain went into more detail about the Fiend problem, mentioning several more-than-nasty wrongdoers. Violet, Cook-Cook, and Driver Nephi sounded like nuisances who had caused chaos, but as usual, I wasn't afraid of the thought of going after them. Boone and Arcade were not foriegn to the idea either, so we struck up a deal; we would spend our final night resting in the comfort of the camp on NCR beds, then sometime in the early morning, go dispose of the hated Fiends.

I pulled Sterling aside halfway through the meal to speak with him more about Hoover Dam, and we retreated to his barrack just as dusk settled. "Take a seat," he motioned toward the ruined couch, and as I prepared to sit and talk, a familiar piercing barking sounded from nearby. Peering out of the tent, I saw that one of the NCR Rangers had entered from the Wasteland. As the large camp doors opened, Rex bolted out.

"Shit," I heard Boone curse from the dinner table nearby. He stood and jogged out. The Ranger looked curiously after the dog, and another First Recon sniper piped up, "Do you want me to step out with you to get him?"

"No, should only take a second," Boone replied. "He probably saw a rat. I'll be right back."

I stared out into the gathering darkness, and behind me Sterling muttered, "Coulda' been he seen a rat, or coulda' been he seen one of Violet's dogs."

I turned to the other man. "Rex will come to Boone if he calls." The uncertainty was plain in my voice, for he raised an eyebrow and said, "We can continue our conversation after you make sure."

"Thanks, I'll be right back," I said, muttering silently in my head about how I was going to tell Boone what a jackass he was for leaving the safety of the camp with so many Fiends outside. Especially at night. As I approached the door, Corporal Betsy jogged up to me, grabbing my shoulder.

"Wait," she said, holding her rifle. "I was just up in one of the nests, and saw that dog of your beeline it for Cook-Cook's hideout. He's toast."

"I can't just...Boone went after him!" Fiend or no Fiend. Try and stop me from saving my dog and my sniper. Try. I opened the door, running out and looking madly around. Distantly I heard Rex's bark, and two of the First Recon snipers appeared at my side. Betsy opened the door to McCarran.

"Let's go. I've got cover from the towers, they're going to keep an eye on us. This is the way-"

From the ruins came a high pitched scream, a wail of horror. It was female. Utterly confused, I shouldered my own rifle and ran blindly into the night as the voice cried, "Help! PLEASE!"

The maze of once-buildings was impossible to navigate, and I was certain at any moment Violet's dogs would come tearing around a corner. Though the snipers were fit, I was by far the fastest runner, heading toward what I hoped was the sound. Tactical -minded, the silent group fanned out around me. Then gunshots rang out in the night, from the same direction as the screams.

"Boone!" I shouted, recognizing the sound. Boone had fired, multiple times, something that in itself alarmed me. Not one to waste bullets, he wasn't at sniping range for anything in this maze. Even as I skidded around a corner, certain I was almost within distance, I heard Rex's barks and growls as he fought madly with someone or something. Then a yelp, and the dog too was silent.

Betsy was parallel to me, and rounded on the hideout just as I did. The sight was terrible; Boone was laying face down on the pavement, his rifle feet away, his beret off. Near him and protecting him when he got hit, Rex lay on his side, unmoving. A naked girl, on her knees, jumped out of my way as I stepped over, clutching at a piece of fabric as she moved behind Boone, and in the midst of all the chaos stood a heavily armored man who was just re-shouldering his incinerator.

Boone shoved the girl back behind him so roughly that she landed on her butt, but at least she was saved from the blazing heat of Cook-cook's burner. Boone wasn't so lucky; rearing back, the monster swung the machine at him, the metal connecting with Boone's head. He flew backwards over a concrete barrier, his beret flying off, hearing the scream of the girl behind him. Hearing Rex's infuriated growling, Boone knew the dog was attacking. Despite being almost knocked unconscious the sniper righted himself, Cook-cook dropping the incinerator and brandishing something from his pocket. Boone fired over and over, seeing his bullets tear through the other's armor. As the heavy arm flew down for the last blow it would ever give anyone, Boone tried to dodge; it was no good. Cook-cook's butcher knife landed in his side, embedding itself. Now the Fiend reeled backwards, fatigued and bleeding from his gunshot wounds, and Boone looked down oddly at the knife.

It stuck out of his side, strange. His head spun and he suddenly wanted the Courier to be there very badly. Seeing the downed Rex, Boone grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled it out forcefully. It clanged to the ground as he lost consciousness, the gray cement swirling into black in front of him.

I could only look down at Boone in horror; no gunshot wounds were visible through his shirt. The Fiend I knew must be Cook-Cook wore thick armor, but Boone had gotten him; I saw the wounds through his metal breastplate. Before I could even react, the wounded Cook-Cook was facing an enraged Betsy. She leapt deftly over the incinerator, kicking his metal helmet, downing the shot man. Once he fell heavily (VERY heavily, might I say) on his back, she aimed the rifle down, sticking the long skinny barrel through the thin visor on his helmet. Betsy shot twice, blood and brain matter exploding within the helmet, and I immediately rushed to Boone's side.

The girl who clutched her clothing pathetically hovered. Covering herself, she said, "He...the...metal...he was raping me, and he..." pointing to Boone, "...j-jumping in front of him and shoo-"

"How did he get knocked out?" I demanded, my voice far sterner than it should've been with the poor girl.

"He just...wham...he hit him with the, the...flame...raised it and hit him and then he...the man who saved me...rushed him and shot...and he stabbed-"

"Stabbed?" Boone didn't carry a knife. At least, not one that he'd ever use to attack someone with.

She pointed to Boone; as the other snipers rounded in I pulled Boone by his shoulder, forcing him to turn onto his side. He was no lightweight, his large arms hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes were closed.

"No..." I said, horrified, seeing the crimson soaking through his shirt. "No...Boone!"

"Get him back to camp, NOW!" Betsy shouted in a strained, choked voice, pointing to the sniper on the ground. The girl who still wore no clothes meekly handed me Boone's beret from where it had fallen to the ground. I was still stooped over him, and continued to shout his name. He always responded when you yelled at him. Boone was the lightest sleeper I'd ever met. His eyes were closed and he was on the ground and the world seemed very small.

"Boone, please wake up," I pleaded, pressing on his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Boone, Craig!"

Two men helped the victim to her feet; two others arduously picked up my heavy unconscious cyber-dog. At the word Craig, Boone's eyes flickered, and he muttered, reaching up with one hand, "Carla?"

I grabbed the hand and pulled it to my face. "Yes, yes it's Carla," I said hysterically. "Everything's going to be fine, you're going to be okay, just...hang on please."

"Carla?" His small voice was beseeching. Asking me for something. I threw myself onto Boone, hugging him as though I'd never see him.

"Yes?" I whispered through tears.

"Where's..." And, talking to his dead wife, Craig Boone asked for me.S


	24. Heads Will roll

I stood numbly by as the snipers took Boone away from me. It took three men to lift him, supporting his head and neck, not paying attention to the seeping knife wound that would wind up staining their NCR uniforms. It took two more to lift Rex, and the other First Recon members stepped in to cover on all sides as we hastily ran back to the camp. Betsy ran ahead with a burst of speed, throwing open the door and yelling for a medic. Two soldiers also flanked the still-nude girl, whose dress was wrapped around her torso, barely covering her from all sides.

I trailed behind, jogging slowly, not wanting to run ahead of Boone. When we bypassed the ruins and made it to the camp without Fiend intervention I was surprised and angered; they'd be crazy to fuck with a large group such as ourselves, especially with me on the warpath. But seeing as they were crazy, I was disappointed.

As we rushed in, two snipers moving to push the gate closed, several medics and Arcade came running. The tall blonde's eyes widened impossibly at the sight, and though he was one to downplay his skills as a doctor, he immediately moved in to care for Boone. My gaze went from the huddled NCR snipers who carried him to a tent, down to the dusty ground where a trail of Boone's blood settled. My eyes followed it blankly, then I seemed to be shoved by some inner force, my feet dragging forward as I entered the dreaded tent.

Boone was on a hospital bed, the medics already going to work. It seemed Arcade had put himself in charge, for he was the one babbling instructions and snapping his fingers, asking for supplies. The two medics seemed at least fairly trained and comfortable, not minding that the lanky man in a white coat took over and barked orders at them in a way I'd never seen Arcade rage. Still in a state of shock, and forgotten, I slouched against a tent pole and watched without watching, my eyes fading over and my point of focus being some unknown dot on the horizon.

It was terrible watching something like this and not being able to DO anything. It didn't cross my mind to panic now as I'd already had my moment of weakness outside, throwing myself on the mostly-unconscious man and latching on with a vise-like grip. But now he was in better hands. No one paid a bit of attention to me at all, the officers who weren't assisting Arcade standing by hopefully. They had served with Boone at some point, knew him when he was an entirely different man; probably that man I had seen for a moment in the flicker of his hopeful eyes at seeing me alive, when he smiled at me.

Grinned like a fool, walking around like he couldn't believe his own luck. It sounded so unlike Boone I hadn't even acknowledged when the ranger said it. What I'd give for a scowl, for a "will you stop it" when I jumped across the potholes in Freeside as though they were stepping stones, for a glare of doom or a faceful of snow or...

Turning, I left the tent. Without really speaking to anyone, I walked quickly across the camp, back to the barracks where Arcade, Boone and I had set up camp for the night. Tossing my rifle onto the bed, I picked up a pistol and a machete. As I spun around to exit, Betsy stood in the doorway.

"Just where do you think you're going? Your friend in there needs you. He was asking for you just as soon as you left, until that doctor shut him up with tranquilizer."

This shocked me, because I didn't realize Boone even knew I had been there. I didn't know he was even awake. But I wasn't a doting female, I wasn't Carla, I was an enraged murder on the warpath who wouldn't be stopped. I strapped my belt on over the worn pink hoodie, the machete dangling at my thigh.

She realized my intentions and stepped in front of me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You know I don't want to stand by while you to run out there and almost get yourself killed."

"Then help me." The bitterness in my own voice was displaced; shrugging the hand off, I headed towards the camp's entrance and exit.

Violet backed away from me, whistling. The dogs approached. Fuck my life. Forming a perfect circle, they growled mercilessly, waiting their master's call to attack. Fangs glistening, neck hair bristling, the pack was a sea of brown and stink as I stood motionless, machete raised. Now Violet tossed her head back and laughed, the flash of her teeth looking more animalistic in the moonlight than the dog pack circling their prey. One dog couldn't resist; he went for it, biting me in the calf, his huge teeth sinking down into the flesh and causing me to yell out against my will.

But not for long. With a growl that sounded inhumane in itself, I unloaded into the dog's spine, watching him fall. Another bullet whizzed past me and hit his companion. And then all hell broke loose. The dogs attacked, I holstered the pistol and started hacking away like a madman. Violet, seeing that I wasn't going to go down as easy as she'd hoped, turned tail and fled, and I yelped, "No!" and went after her, cutting down dogs in my path.

At the sound of bullets, though, I turned momentarily to see Betsy in one of the nests, her white skin and red beret barely noticeable. She had seen me turn, and waved. I didn't have time to wave back; hack and slash continued to the front of me, with backup from her and other nesters. But Betsy just knew me too well. Seeing Violet getting away, and wanting to repay me for the favor of letting her have Cook-Cook...her bullet splintered Violet's leg. The girl wailed, a screeching tone, and went down.

Once the pack was thinned, I wasted no time in swooping down on her, one final screech emitting before she was silenced permanently, and allowing me only a moment of gritty justice before I moved to search for Driver Nephi.

As I walked back to camp, I was thinking of snow. I couldn't think of Boone; the way he would close his eyes while sitting in front of the campfire, the way he never hesitated to shoulder his gun and step in front of me, the way he had led me around for two days while my body worked the Cazador venom out, restoring my vision.

Surprisingly, one of the first faces I saw when I entered McCarran was Arcade, who looked very tired and still very on edge. "There you are!" he exclaimed. "Boone's..." and now his steps paused and he looked at me, boots to beret. My calf was bloody and meaty, and in one hand I held a machete, the other hand gripping both the head of Violet and the head of Nephi. My expression looked extremely unimpressed, and Arcade finished, "...awake."

I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy killing sometimes. Some needed to die, not because they were weaker or had different views or didn't live life the same way I did. Some needed to die because they were cancerous to humanity. No one else saw what I had seen in Mr. House's monitor. Those that did had died instantly. Nobody knew how that by continuing these stupid quests for pain and heartache, these psychopaths and their thirst for blood and power were leading us down a road we so ached to get away from.

I didn't trust anyone's ability to tell right from wrong except mine. 


	25. Meet Me At McCarran

The tent had emptied since I left earlier, everyone filing out to let a doctored-up Boone get his rest. Arcade had warned me that Rex, due to having a broken foot, was under tranquilizers so he wouldn't thrash around and damage himself further. The dog was laying on his side quietly in a full-sized hospital bed, his one dog-leg in a cast. My eyes moved past him to the dark figure on the accompanying bed.

"Boone," he was awake, and I rushed to his side. It was no coincidence a tall stool sat by the bedside and I unceremoniously plopped down onto it, drawing my wounded legs up on the footholds and leaning towards him. He was awake, laying on his back, looking very uncomfortable in general. Boone was shirtless, and a huge bandage smeared with red adorned most of his side. I didn't touch it, but stared at it momentarily, before meeting his eyes.

He looked at me strangely there in the darkness, a lantern the only flickering light falling across his face. His hands were laced over his chest, and the look was one I couldn't recognize. It wasn't a glare of doom, but it wasn't a smile, either. Possibly the medication and painkillers Arcade undoubtedly jammed into Boone was making a dazed look saunter onto his features, but the uncanny way with which he stared at me made me wish he would speak.

"I don't know how I keep coming out of these things alive," he said ruefully. His voice was thick with the doziness of medicine, and possibly the shock of trauma. It had definitely lost a note of its hardiness, snappiness. I wasn't sure what to think of that.

"Because I went out after you," I said defensively. "I need you alive."

Boone's brows raised. The world still seemed tiny to me. He was not one to be laying like this, wounded and defenseless in bed with no shirt and a bloody knife wound. He continued to raise his eyebrows and so I rambled, "How bad...is it?"

"Arcade says I'm not supposed to move for a week."

"Which means we'll be out of here in two days." I smiled even with eyes glistening full of tears, my hands folded tightly under the bottom of the stool.

"Maybe one." Boone surprised me; unlacing his hands, he reached out one long arm and put his hand on the side of my face. Not forcefully, as he'd done on the Long 15 after his hands were untied; this was the same gentle touch he used twice now, once while bandaging me, once while we were above Arcade in the canyon. To my amazement, as I sat awkwardly on the stool with my hands tucked underneath me, he retraced his fingers over my brow, cheek, lips. I had used the same touch and pattern in the dinosaur in Novac. My eyes were as wide as saucers. Whatever medicine Arcade had given Boone, I needed to find out.

"You're sad too," he responded, directly referring to my blind touch. "Whatever's in your past, you were wronged. Terribly. It may be a good thing that it's hidden."

I exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. I felt the exact same way. But I didn't know how to respond. In his low, subdued tone Boone continued stroking my cheek, and I closed my eyes, bending forward in exhaustion and defeat, laying my head against his chest. He was warm, and I could feel his excruciatingly slow heartbeat.

Ready to just call it quits and collapse here in the warm sanctity of the desert tent, with a shirtless Boone as my pillow, I sighed and lay there in the quiet, feeling his hand as he moved it gently to my neck. Everything from tonight, the horrible scene with Cook-cook, wrecking Violet and hacking Nephi, swam in the back of my head. But I was here, with Boone. Just as my restless thoughts drifted to sleep, Boone said in an even lower voice, "Why did you answer for Carla?"

My eyes opened, but I didn't move. Speaking into his chest, I answered, "I...I just wanted to comfort you, I guess."

"You do."

You do. My eyes closed again. I didn't even mind the fact that I half-sat; I was too relieved and tired to care. I have to admit, I was shocked that this was even happening; after a hard night of Fiend destroying, I was laying my head on Boone's warm and extremely well-sculpted chest, something that had lingered in my dreams since...since when, exactly?

He fell silent and his hand stopped its slow caressing on my neck.

And there, on the stool, weary and exhausted and with the stench of blood and dog on me, my leg still drip 


	26. From the Dawn Came Dusk

"You're barely balancing out there. If you're not careful, you'll fall."

Boone clutched his throbbing temple with his hand, the other hand pressuring his stab wound. He shook his head; the fading screams of the Bitter Springs encampment echoed from the dream he'd just been startled out of. He told himself what he always told himself upon awakening; it was just a dream. But it hadn't been a dream, a few years ago. Back then it had been real.

Now he paused from his knelt stance to glance forward at the legs of the person speaking. Her feet were together, facing away from him. What had she just said? Something about falling? Had he fallen? Boone's loss of blood was significant. Slowly he stood. The woman had her back to him, a familiar dirty brown barely-dress covering her back and thighs. Her hair was down, she was barefoot. But the hair wasn't the golden-blond of the Courier. It was a pale, translucent blond. The Courier's locks were the afternoon sun, blinding and austere. These muslin-thin strands were instead the first meek rays of light in winter, washed out and dim. Her hair was straight, shoulder length, wispy.

"Carla?" Boone asked confusedly. His head was still killing him, so he didn't remove the palm he pressed viciously into the side of his temple. The knife had left a gaping hole that burned like all hellfire, so he continued to stoop, afraid to stand for fear of more pain. "Am I dead?"

"You can't risk falling, Craig Boone." She had only called him that when she was being very serious, and Boone toyed with the idea that he really was dead. If so, that was fortunate. He only wished the severe headache would stop; he felt as though he might explode. "Not now, and not ever."

"Carla..." There was so much he wanted to say, and he hadn't stared at the back of her head since that fateful day, so long ago. He wanted her to turn around, wanted everything to be the way it was back then. Would it, now? If he was dead, he supposed seeing Carla immediately was a good sign. Then again, she wasn't looking at him. Was she mad? She had every right to be. As though she knew what he was thinking, as she always had in life, Carla replied, not moving, "Thank you for what you did."

"What I did?"

"You saved me."

"I didn't-"

"You did." That tone of hers always made him stop. It was the tone that said she won the argument. She wore a slaver's dress, the same thing she was wearing when Boone tracked her down. Risking pain, he dropped his hand from his temple and stood to full height, towering over the petite woman. Now he put a hand on her shoulder, intending to turn her to him. But Carla remained stony. She seemed frozen. Around her, around everything, there was only white.

He squeezed her shoulder, and Carla said, "You did everything you could for me, Craig. But you are responsible for someone so important now, someone who can save half the world, free so many people. You can redeem yourself by helping her."

Redeem? There was no redemption for him, especially now that he was dead. As usual, Boone had no words. He didn't know how to express anything, all he wanted to do was apologize over and over until the end of time to this woman for what he'd done. Not just to her, but to countless people. People who deserved redemption, deserved peace. Again, reading his thoughts, Carla spoke in her usual harsh, clipped tone.

"Peace... Oliver Twist, page 425."

"What?"

Instantly he was plunged into darkness.

The Courier was in a low-ceiling shack. It was long but narrow, and there wasn't much light except the warm lighting from the fire that blazed on one end of the structure. The windows had curtains; they were drawn tightly shut. Oddly, she realized that this place was decorated for something. Streamers, colored banners adorned the walls. But in the darkness, where she was having a hard time adjusting to the light, there seemed to be something foreboding about the place. Menacing, even.

She realized the feeling of uneasiness emanated from the open door opposite the fire. Outside, the snow was a dark blue color, because moonlight filtered through the trees and illuminated it strangely. Wind howled out there in the frigid cold, and the Courier realized she wanted to go nowhere near the door. She had to close it though. Out there in the darkness, something lurked. Something hideous.

She pulled her coat tight around her and instinctively her hand dropped, reaching for her holster. To her great surprise, nothing was there. The Courier looked down quickly; she ALWAYS had a sidearm on her belt. But there was no belt, no familiar pink hoodie. Instead, she realized she was wearing a dress, tall snow boots, leggings. Her coat and the dress brushed her knees. Stunned at this choice of attire, the girl continued to stare at herself. Then the door creaked, and her attention was brought back up to the rectangle exposing her to the horror without.

The wind continued to howl. It was early morning; she could sense it. The sun had hours to go, and she could not stand here with the wind slamming the metal door into the outer wall. The Courier plucked up her courage, and with very heavy steps, crossed the ten feet of space, stepping outside to grab the flyaway door. As she leaned out into the snow, even the wind died down. The Courier paused, questioning her fear. What was outside? Now she took two more steps into the snow, realizing that her little half-moon structure was sitting on the edge of a mountain. By her, a steep white trail free of trees and extending ten feet ran up the course of the mountain. All around were thick, huge evergreen trees. They were blanketed in the odd blue snow. And everything was silent.

She exhaled, her breath fogging out around her. Touching her hands to her ears, the Courier saw the earmuffs she'd described to Boone, and pulled them off. Now in her hands, she stared incredulously at them. For a moment, her fear dissipated as she turned the powder-blue muffs over and over. Then she paused, hearing a rustling in the trees opposite the trail. Moonlight flowed down the steep mountainside, but there was nothing to see in the forest.

Everything, every instinct the girl had, told her to run back inside and slam the door. But something else, some sorrowful Boone-like part of her existence told her it was no good. There was nothing to prevent whatever was about to happen. She turned her gaze upward, looking around her at the towering sea of trees, the glistening stars that twinkled behind them. Though she didn't know it, only felt it, the Courier sensed she'd spent many nights out with a telescope watching the heavens.

Something rushed from the forest opposite the trail, heavy footfalls silent on the forgiving snow. It was a black, tall silhouette, human. She wasted no time; heart jumping, skipping a beat, the Courier fled inside, pulling the door shut. He was heading straight for them. Quickly finding the lock, and then three more, and still another bolt-why was this door so secure?-she fastened them all, stepping away and reaching up on a shelf where a shotgun lay. How she knew where it was immediately, the Courier wasn't sure. But it was loaded and ready to go.

Something thudded from the other side. Her breath was silent, and the heavy wind which had risen again now moaned, causing the metal shack to creak and pop. Another thud, and this time a sliver of light showed through. The shotgun was pushed into her shoulder as she lifted it, ready to defend herself. From outside, the shadow moved, and one crazed eye settled itself into the nook. It looked all around crazily, rolling in no pattern, settling on her. Then it disappeared, the intruder opting to pick back up his weapon and beat in the door.

The door thudded; the thin metal caved. Now with the larger hole in the tin, she realized that the man had an axe. The Fire Man. At such a distance, she could litter him with the gun. Firing, then twice more, the man on the outside seemed to ignore the bullets and continued his assault.

Near the fire, a group of people were huddled. Liam stepped from them, and the Courier jumped at realizing how many there were inside. Speaking up, he said, "Shooting won't do any good."

"Why not!" Liam had become her advisor from the past. She urgently awaited his reply. Something shattered; it was a window. Inside flew a molotav cocktail, something the Courier had often employed with empty Nuka-cola bottles while traversing the Wasteland. It burst inside, the building erupting into flame. No one but her seemed to notice, or react to this. As the Courier lifted her arm to shield her face from the liquid heat, the people huddled near the fire like ghosts. Undaunted by the flames that had exploded in front of him, Liam shrugged. Now he was a wisp behind the wall of fire, where the girl couldn't get to him.

The door splintered open, the large shadow overtaking the doorway. The Courier had her back to the shadow, still staring at Liam.

"Nothing did any good."

Now the hulking man bore down on the girl and, dropping her useless gun, she screamed. 


	27. Back to Vegas

Julie Farkas had actually hugged me when she saw us lug in the bags of medical and food supplies I bought from the NCR. I told her to thank Arcade for being a statistics master while being sloppily drunk, and she looked at me strangely. After the brief visit, the four of us made another stop; the King's headquarters. Still indebted to him for helping me get back on my feet, I was eager to help if he had any issues. The white-suited man informed me that things were going well, better than ever thanks to my "honorable, peaceful efforts." He seemed happy to see me not passed out on his bed in Legion attire, and commented thus, giving me a wink which made me blush, Arcade grin, and Boone glare.

Then it was back onto the Strip, where we decided to stop by the Tops first. I wanted to hear if there had been any news of Benny, as well as pay a visit to Yes Man. The robot flattered me and irritated me at the same time. I knew Boone wouldn't be a fan, but Yes Man was probably the most invaluable source of information we had concerning the fate of New Vegas. Once inside, an unfamiliar man asked us to check our weapons. We did so, the strange man looking at mine and Boone's berets. Suddenly, he leaned over the counter.

"Are you the one who has access to the Lucky 38?" he whispered to me.

"Who's asking?" Boone paused in handing over his pistol.

The man fished through his pocket, then pulled out two pieces of paper. "This is from the head of the Chairmen."

Annoyed, I took the papers. "Yeah, where are the Chairmen, by the way? I don't see anyone in here that looks like-"

"They vanished!" he said excitedly. "They packed up and left, gave the casino to me and my associates. Seemed in a hurry, and I was in the business. Sold this place to me cheap. But I promised I'd give this to you first hand. Promised a reward if I could prove you got it."

I could only imagine by who. Arcade's eyebrow arched dubiously, and Boone's nostrils flared. Diplomatically I said, pocketing the papers, "Ask Benny how it feels to be off the T. He'll know what you mean."

"Off the tea? Don't get it. Like-"

"Benny will know what you mean."

"You sure?"

We turned away from the counter, and Rex wagged his tail hopefully.

"He'll know."

Although he said nothing, I knew Boone knew precisely what I was referring to as well. Through his scope, the capital T of the cross Benny had hung on would've been visible enough. As we made our way past the milling gamblers, en route to Benny's old suite, (which I still had the key to) he glanced at me but said nothing.

"Oh, wow! You're so smart, keeping the Chip from him like that. He'll never have a way to use the Mark II upgrade if it's not in the system." Possibly the only part more delightful than Yes Man himself was Boone's murderous look. We sat against the wall, engaging the robot in conversation.

Mr. House had been on the hunt for me while I journeyed to Goodsprings, which is why Victor immediately rounded on us upon sight. If my friends and I stepped back into the Lucky 38 there was going to be hell to pay. Yes Man, assuming I like Benny wanted the strip for myself, had informed me he could upload his own software to Mr. House's network...assuming Mr. House was out of the way. The flattering robot didn't seem to know exactly how Mr. House was alive, but I had spied the hidden area behind the terminal in his penthouse. I had the faintest idea that he may have been back there.

During a lull in the question and answer round, Arcade asked me, "Do you want the Strip?"

"You'd make such a good leader," Yes Man doted.

"I'm not sure. That much power..." I didn't know if I could handle it. But I did love Vegas, wanted to keep it independent.

"Oh yes, it's so much power. What a load of stress!" Yes Man was blown away.

"But one thing is for sure. Mr. House has lost it. You should've heard him scream and growl when I refused the chip." I shook my head.

"He'd been waiting on it for a few centuries," Boone mused, "Seeing it slip out of his hands so fast probably threw him off the deep end."

"Oh my! He is certainly crazy."

"If you don't shut up I'm going to punch you right in your-"

I elbowed Boone. "He's helping us, at least." Although I had barely nudged him, and on the side opposite of his still-tender wound, the sniper still gave me one of the nastiest looks ever seen. I couldn't help but smile back; Boone's broody nature was becoming something I adored. Once he had fallen outside of McCarran I knew I'd be happy to see him looking at me again, even if that look was a glare of doom. This one most certainly was. It wasn't getting better with my grin. I turned my smile back to Yes Man.

"He has to be stopped. If he gets that Chip, Vegas will have a tyrant with a turreted casino and missile-launching robots. Although it sounds fun and colorful, I'm betting the fun will stop in about two minutes." Arcade agreed.

"Less than that, even!" Yes Man responded jovially, ignoring Boone.

"But then what do we do?" Arcade asked, running a hand through his hair. "As crazy as he is, House is a genius and an authority figure."

"Brilliant," echoed Yes Man.

I shook my head, stumped. My thoughts were running back to the Lucky 38. I loved the casino, already thought of it as mine. Possibly this was due to the fact that everyone admired me for having the ability to go inside the building. Possibly because it was in much nicer condition than many places I slept. Possibly I was as power-hungry as Mr. House.

"We'll get rid of him tonight," I decided, and the men on each side of me nodded in grim agreement.

"It's only 6pm," Arcade noted by way of his wristwatch, one he'd pieced together himself. "What do we do in the meantime?"

I raised my eyebrows. "We're in Vegas, what do you think we do in the meantime?"

Boone and Arcade took on the task of storing some of our haul in Benny's room. It was the safest place next to the Lucky 38, which wasn't at the moment particularly safe. Arcade insisted on redressing Boone's bandages, and so Boone grumpily sat on the bed, shirtless, letting the doctor do his work.

I sat on the other end of the bed, withdrawing my letter while Arcade complained that Boone was moving too much, undoing the stitches he would now have to retouch. Unfolding the papers as Boone's string of cursewords began, I realized one was a document. A property deed, courtesy of Mr. House, signed by the NCR Embassy in New Vegas. The property deed was to the Tops Casino.

The other paper was a letter. i

Baby,

A man's gotta make his way somehow. I've relocated with my enterprise to a place where you and Vegas don't have to rub shoulders. I heard from others, same as you, House had it in for my boys. So we split, nice and easy. The Tops is in good hands, don't worry about all of that. I took all of what the Chairmen earned but yanno it's a little hard to manage a casino when you're not in it, so the rest from here on out is all yours. And the Tops knows how to earn her keep. As soon as I've gotten word that you got my letter, I'll fill Jacob in. That's the new management team. Do me a favor baby and don't come lookin' for me to smoke me outta here, startin' over ain't easy. Although I still don't feel we're even, a casino for a life is a pretty shitty deal, but it's somethin, yeah?

Enjoy the Tops pussycat. Your Ben Man. /i

"FUUUCK!" from Boone, beside me. 


	28. Handling Boone

Everyone had folded, even Arcade. While we waited with bated breath, the last better shook his head, and forfeited to Boone. My jaw dropped as Boone drunkenly scooped the mountain of chips toward him.

"Wait, what was your hand?" One player asked. Boone paused, narrowing his eyes, and then said, "Oh."

He threw down a pair of two's.

Arcade erupted into laughter, I shook my head slowly with a dumbfounded smile. The other gamblers sighed, the early folders laughing with Arcade for having gotten out easy. Again, a crowd had formed, most buying our drinks in the hopes that someone would win the pot if Arcade or Boone got drunk enough. And while Arcade was performing at his peak it appeared Boone could out-poker him. How, we still weren't sure. The blond had rambled on about chance and statistics some more, while Boone's shrewd glare kept the other players on their toes, ready to rise to his challenge.

In the crowd, a well-dressed woman with blood red lipstick put her hands on Boone's shoulders, rubbing them through the thin fabric of his shirt. Boone's eyebrows disappeared into his beret at this, and she said in a sultry voice, "It's no wonder he keeps winning, with a pokerface like that." Now she bent down and smiled at Boone, blowing him a kiss and shimmying her shoulders. Boone, drunk, gave her a confused look. The other watchers cat-called and whistled.

"Hey." Arcade poked me. "Hey. Hey. Heeeeeeey." Everyone else had placed bets.  
My hands were in my lap, and I was staring at this woman with a glare of doom that even Boone could never replicate to its full extent. Murder was in my eyes.

"Heyyyyyyy," Arcade grabbed my shoulder, shaking it. Boone continued to stare at the woman, who winked at him, several more shouts of "ohhhh!" and "whoop!" echoing through the crowd. I wanted to smash her face with a Super Sledge. Taking Boone's drunk stare as an invitation, she continued in that low tone, "Who are you here with, sugar? Need me to take you off their hands?"

"NO." I said forcefully, throwing my chips into the betting pile, not even looking at them. She turned, and a roar of "ooooOOOOooooo." Arcade's head pivoted to the side, realizing what was going on. He looked from Boone to the girl, and then snapped his fingers. It broke Boone's trance and he narrowed his eyes at Arcade, who motioned his head towards me. I of course, was focused only on Miss Red Lips. "He's perfectly happy in my hands."

"Is that so?" she asked sweetly, jutting out her hip and putting her arms akimbo. She eyed me up and down; I was still in my hoodie and beret, hair up and face plain. Her eyes were smoky, lips crimson, face powdered, hair smooth. The dress she wore was blood red and very form-fitting. The dealer paused in his shuffling to listen. "It doesn't look like a dirty little thing like you can handle a big strong man like this."

Boone was now engaged, thanks to Arcade's nudging. He piped up in his clipped voice, "She 'handles' me better than you ever could, you could probably learn a thing or two from her."

"And myyyy bet is she's about to punch the hooker lipstick off your mouth if you don't leave," Arcade said, leaning lazily forward. My glare hadn't reduced in intensity, and the woman took a step back, appalled. Boone swiveled in his seat to look at her, almost toppling over from intoxication. With a disgusted scoff and vulgar gesture, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, who were laughing uproariously.

"Show us how you handle the NCR guy!" someone piped up.

"Lucky bastard," laughed another.

"You should've taken that whore out!"

"Back to the game," the dealer said loudly, humored. As he fluttered the cards, one of the table muttered, "if that guy beats me with another three of a kind..."

My anger over the woman had mostly dissipated, and I wrung my hands to loosen the tension, making it a point to not look at Boone.

Only a few hours remained until we were going to assault the Lucky 38. We were ready, and in those few hours, reality would hit. But for now, we were all content to cut loose in the casino I now owned, though I hadn't informed Boone or Arcade of this. As the laughs of the crowd continued, recalling the situation, the sniper slid a hand under the table to my knee, squeezing it reassuringly. Surprised, I turned to him.

"Don't let shit like that bother you," he muttered.

I raised an eyebrow. "You are saying you would turn down a-"

"Yes." He let his hand fall, then brought it back on the table to hold his cards.

I smiled at Boone as he squinted to see the numbers and suits, his serious stare now fully focused on the rectangles of paper. 


	29. Mr House's Gift, II

"More significant ideas are -hic- formed when your mind finds synergies...synergies, -hic- between your less significant ideas in an ongoing fractal motion." Arcade argued as we walked up the lighted steps. All three of us experienced some vertigo due to the mass amount of alcohol in our systems, and Arcade leaned against me, and I in turn leaned against Boone, who flailed a little. Rex tilted his head at our lack of ability.

"Ready to blast some Securitrons, Boone?" I was hanging onto him shamelessly. He wasn't stopping me.

"It just won't be the same if it isn't Biscuit," he said ruefully, and I wasn't sure if he was serious or not. I stepped away as we clumsily withdrew our weapons, doing a poor job of steadying ourselves.

Arcade was still going. "... where anything imaginable will mostly be -hic- based on your current attributes and -oh, we're drawing guns, right- skills. This is a rather..." yawn "...ineffective way to visualize something as it limits your..."

We stepped into the dark casino. The Securitrons at the doorway turned, and we all raised the weapons.

"Say hi to biscuit for us!" Arcade sang as he opened fire.

Arcade fell onto the bed in the Presidential suite. "We should really get those holodiscs over to-hic-what's her name? What is her name..."

"Hang on, there's something I wanted to see." Along with the metal encased encrypted discs, I pulled out the ones I had saved from Mr. House's network. The destruction of Vegas was on file on it. The other file was titled "Pre-War Interview," and I decided before running into the control room guns blazing, we should watch it. Maybe this was a good idea, maybe I was still really drunk. I sat at the desk and inserted the disc. My hope was that since it was a file of Mr. House's own uploading, he wouldn't notice the file being played. And if he did, what was he going to do? Send more Mark I robots?

As I sat, Boone walked to a large mirror hanging by my head. He scowled at himself. "What did that girl mean, poker face? I look like this all the time."  
"We know," Arcade and I said simultaneously. His scowl deepened. He adjusted his beret as I opened the file.

"Come watch."

The image turned from black to a clean, simple room. An audience was sitting in front of a stage. It seemed to be a clip from a show of some sort. My nose was almost glued to the screen, as was Arcade's. I hadn't even seen him get off the bed. We were drinking in all the pre-War imagery as the screen moved to the stage, where an amiable looking man sat in a comfortable chair.

"Look at everything," Arcade mumbled. "Brilliant."

The recording device had moved in on the man, who was now speaking. He wore a white suit, had light, slicked-back hair, and a big toothy smile.

"There's supposed to be sound," Arcade mused as the man continued moving his mouth on the monitor. "Hmm...seems there may be a short..." Genius even when plastered, my friend began pushing buttons, trying different combinations to trigger the sound. From behind us, Boone leaned forward and planted a heavy fist on top of the monitor. When it crashed, the sound magically came to life. Though Arcade turned to stare at Boone, both the sniper and I were listening to the man onscreen now.

"...very special guest, please give a warm welcome, Mr. Robert House!"

He walked dazzlingly onto the screen amid applause from the audience we couldn't see. Dressed in an expensive but outdated suit, he moved to the empty chair facing the light-haired man. Whatever program was used to record was highly capable as it moved from Mr. House to the other man whenever one spoke. It zoomed in, and we listened.

"So, you've been with RobCo for...how many years now?"  
"Twelve."  
"As founder. The worldwide leader in electronics. You've helped businesses, consumers, and even the military with these creations."  
Mr. House nodded, looking quite pleased with himself. "It doesn't seem like there's any way to slow you down," the man smiled. He seemed enchanted with the rich businessman. "I think most of us have heard about the work being done in vaults, and many of us would agree that RobCo rivals Poseiden in terms of successful energy endeavors. What would you say your biggest achievement to date is?"  
Mr. House dove right in. "Well, that depends on whether you mean personal or business. For business, I consider RobCo in full as my greatest accomplishment. Every piece of data collected, every program I've constructed, wraps into the entire agenda." In a strange, old-fashioned way, he was very handsome. "RobCo wouldn't be anything without the effort I put into it. I can't pick and choose. From a personal standpoint I would credit myself with going to school despite being an orphan as a great achievement. It's not a very common occurrence."

"Sure is fond of himself, isn't he?" Boone remarked, leaning forward. His arm was draped over the back of my chair. Arcade, at my side, slid a chair over for himself. He was shaking his head already at Mr. House.

"I see, great! You're definitely a model to aspiring entrepreneurs across the globe. Any new plans, developments as far as RobCo goes?"

Mr. House eyed him, smiling mischievously, and the audience laughed. The interviewer laughed as well.

"How about this," he reconstructed, "Any that you can tell us about?"

House laughed. "Well, there is one currently undergoing development. We call it a PIP."

"PIP?"

"It stands for Personal Information Processor." At the other man's 'ahhh' House complimented himself, "A name of my own, of course. We're going to develop these for future use. They do a wide variety of things for the user, serving as a radio, communications device, personal stats reader..." he waved his hand. "You name it, the PIP will do it. That is, once it goes on the market. As I said, it's in very early development at this time. I expect it to be a best-seller."

"Oh, very good! I'm sure once they're out we'll all go and get one. Can't wait."

"It's uncanny," Boone said with a sigh, resting his chin on the back of my chair. "Like an ancestor of Yes Man."

"You were recently faced with some really positive, and really negative feedback, when you agreed to help the US government produce some potentially deadly defense measures. For someone who typically has remained politically neutral, what would you have to say on this?"

"Well," Mr. House pondered, drawing up his chest and crossing his leg. "It was definitely something I had to think about. I don't do well with politics, never have. Democracy to me is a flawed system, and as I work with systems all day I try to steer clear of the ones that are so corrupt. Honestly, the possibility that a nuclear war will come soon is a very real threat, if you ask me. We're building these vaults as precautions. Tensions everywhere are strained. All you have to do is turn on the radio, or just listen to gossip for five minutes to hear, someone said this, someone's threatening that. It's like a disease all over the planet."

We were breathless.

"I think that mankind was made for more than that, definitely. I want to focus all of our energies on science and technology, but it's very hard to do that in the event that a nuclear war starts and levels us all. I suppose I agreed to help primarily to put my own mind at ease."

"So you do believe the proposition that we are nearing another war?"

"Oh yes. Assuredly." Mr. House nodded, his temple propped up with two fingers. "Perhaps the fact that RobCo is working with our government will make anyone think twice."

"You think that war will be avoided by bringing your company into it?"

"RobCo is a powerful corporation," House boasted. "I've seen what it can do, who it can help. I believe in my company, definitely."

The interviewer looked as though he'd struck a gold mine. "Certainly! RobCo backing will send a note out with it. Now, you mentioned the flaws in democracy. At this point, what do you think our other options are?"

This was what I'd been waiting for. Mr. House's eyes shone momentarily, a greedy gleam in them that sent a shiver down my spine. He blinked, and his dark, handsome face was back to normal, but I knew what I saw in his eyes. It was unmistakable.

"Oh, there are many." He dismissively waved his hand. Arcade must have caught the look too, for he scoffed loudly. "As I said, I try not to get into politics too much. I want mankind's technology, RobCo's technology, to lead us to the stars. " That charming smile enraptured the audience. House's interviewer gave him one final look of adoration said, "Well, that's it for-"

I turned off the terminal.

"Guess that's it, then?" Boone asked, standing back up.

I had the other video, the Vegas one. I didn't intend on showing it to anyone. I don't know why. I don't think I wanted anyone else to have to question their own existence, their own species, the way I had to after seeing it. I sat in the chair numbly.

"Shall we?" Arcade stood, stretching.

"No."

"What?" Boone looked at me.

"This is something I have to do alone." Finally I stood as well, brushing Boone's beret and checking behind the stitched emblem pocket for the Platinum Chip. It was still there.

Boone and Arcade were both glaring now.

"No! We're coming with you."

I stared at them pointedly, then walked out of the room unsteadily toward the elevator.

"I'll be back."

"But-" 


	30. Mr House Vs Uncle Vanya

"I hope you liked my interview," House said with a snarl as I stepped over the last Securitron and up to his unblinking image on the monitor.

"It was great," I spat, clutching my arm. A bullet from one of the damned machines had grazed my elbow. Though the gash wasn't bad, I was still intoxicated and bleeding quickly.

"What do you want?" he asked exhaustedly. He didn't seem to care that I had just killed what lay between me and him, his only method of protection. I think the fact that he was without the Platinum Chip bothered him more than impending death.

"I just want to know why," I found myself asking. "Why you insist on being a dictat-"

"I'm not a dictator," House interrupted condescendingly. "I'm a benevolent dictator."

Waving my hands in a frustrated manner, and probably because while drunk I seemed to be able to tap into my extensive pre-Benny-bullet knowledge base, I retorted, "Benevolence is subjective, especially in terms of an authoritarian governmental system! No dictatorship describes itself as malicious. Benevolence, with a missile-bearing robot army, are you kidding me?"

"So the grunt does know some politics, brava," Mr. House snapped.

"You call Vegas yours. What happens when you die? What system do you have in place to keep this city running?"

"My AI-"

"AI! Running people by machines?"

"Machines are certainly more efficient than indecisive, uncontrollable people. Look at your Wasteland that you wallow around in. That was done by man, not machine."

"You'd like to think of yourself as a machine, I bet," my blood pressure was rising. I was even madder than I was when Boone was having his shoulders massaged in the Tops. "But." I shoved my gun into the holster. "You're just a man."

I turned away, still grabbing my bloody arm, and marched toward the room labeled "Control Room." My ears rang so loud from my own anger that I couldn't hear Mr. House's tantrum from behind me. The fact that I had been able to down all of his machines protecting the room was a testament to my gun skills when drunk. I didn't know how to feel about that.

The Control Room was less of a room and more of a strange singular corridor with one lone terminal perched on the left hand side. I withdrew my pistol cautiously, stepping on the creaking metal and trying not to let vertigo attack me; I was precariously high up, and still too drunk to think clearly. Past the terminal I realized there was some sort of...chamber. It was airtight, large and bulky. Curiously I approached it, assuming it to be a computer.

It wasn't.

When I pressed my nose to the glass I thought I was looking at a dirty skeleton, but then I jumped, understanding it was a man. He lay on his back, tubes hooked to various body parts, but I couldn't see his face. This couldn't be Mr. House. I heard rapid typing on the terminal behind me, and turned.

Boone and Arcade stood in shadow. Arcade was the one accessing the terminal.

"What are you doing?" I cried.

"Helping you finish this," Arcade replied grimly, brandishing his arm as he struck the enter key. Now behind me, the container for the...whatever it was...began to open. Startled, I jumped back, almost running over Boone in the process. Luckily, he was steadier than I, and gripped my shoulders as Arcade leaned in. As one, we watched the strange machine unfold and, as though it was some sickening dinner invitation, twist Mr. House around to face us on a plate.

The three of us were sandwiched together tightly, and it was Arcade who gave me the first shove forward. I approached the monster. A throaty, aged voice whispered from the corpse: "Why..have you...done this?"

I could only feel sorry for him as he shivered there. Mr. House's body was essentially useless. His arms were folded protectively over his chest, where his heart and lungs were attached to gleaming, silent equipment. Sparse hair littered his head and chin, and his legs had shriveled to mere sticks. The skin had a leathery look to it, and his very dead eyes rolled towards me.

Echoing what I had said earlier, although now I was near tears, I said, "You're just a man, Mr. House. Just a man."

"So much good...undone...why?"

Boone apparently hadn't lost his voice, and for once it was he who spoke while I was at a loss for words. Speaking carefully, he said, "You saved this place, we're all thankful. But it has to go back to the people now. You've had it over two hundred years." Though he probably sounded normal to most, I could hear in his voice how unnerved Boone was by this scene. I don't think he expected anything other than maybe a brain in a jar attached to some wires.

Mr. House's voice rose sadly. Even when taken out from behind his big monitor, he still wanted to maintain full control. "I'm the only hope! The world...will fall...without..."

"Mr. House, the world has already fallen, you watched it," I said wearily. "And humanity is humanity's only hope."

His weary, crestfallen eyes looked away from me. Surprised that I felt a twinge of hurt at his barely dechiperable words, he said, "I have nothing more...to say to you."

I raised my pistol, aiming for his head. It wasn't because of the alcohol that my vision was swimming.

We were riding silently down the elevator. None of us had said a word on the way out. I felt sick, and stuck my head onto Arcade's shoulder. He patted my back, muttering something about cleaning up my bloody arm, and Boone seemed to be lost in thought.

As he did when was usually jealous of others for dying, the soldier said hopefully, "At least he's at peace."

"...Wait a minute. Peace. Peace..." Now I turned and Arcade looked up. Boone was thinking impossibly hard, his eyes darting around in his head as he searched for what he wanted to say.

"What did she say?" He was admittedly still drunk, and I arched a brow.  
"She?"  
"Carla."

The elevator door opened, and dinged. Boone snapped his fingers. "Peace... Oliver Twist, page 425!"  
"Excuse me?"  
"Where's Oliver Twist?"  
"It's in the bedr-"

Boone hastened out; Arcade looked at me confusedly and we both followed, running after him. The bag I now hoarded around as though it were priceless treasure was on my bed, and Boone dashed to it, pulling a book out and tossing it on the bed after reading the title.

"Hey, watch how you handle those!" I whined, channeling my previous life bookworm, even as he triumphantly pulled out Oliver Twist.

"Page 495." Boone didn't even try looking. He handed the book over. "Turn to it."

"Why?"

Arcade took the book, realizing Boone was on a tangent. He flipped through the worn-out pages.

I had been a "doodler" it appeared, for inside all the books I had written meaningless (to me, anyway) words, phrases, pictures. Lines and letters. For the moment, we were ignoring those, as they didn't seem to mean much. Though some of them were funny. However, on Page 495 I had written in very poor handwriting a sentence. I peeked over as Arcade read it aloud:

"We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels."

I finished the last sentence with him, looking back at Boone.

"... we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds." 


	31. In Time, or Meet Me at the Lucky 38

I couldn't sleep. Even a full bottle of whiskey hadn't lulled me into a coma as I'd hoped. Above me, high in his tower, House lay dead in a sickening mockery of human longevity. Boone had mysteriously pinpointed a riveting quote in a book I had before any of this Vegas stuff ever happened. Arcade had left several minutes ago, not being able to sleep either. With him were my holodiscs from Goodsprings. He had headed down to Freeside to grab Emily, the resident computer genius, and have her assist him with the decoding process.

"If I decode it while drunk it will probably end up one of my philosophical debates, but Emily can take the wheel," Arcade said, pushing up his glasses. Boone was pouring water from the sink into Rex's bowl as I handed over the discs. Arcade kissed my forehead and stepped to the elevator. He saw the lost look in my eyes as I said, "I hope this does more good than damage."

"It will."

"I just wish I could remembe-"

"You will."

I had glanced over at Boone, as he petted Rex, not even listening to us. Boone was in his own world for the time being. Probably still thinking about Mr. House. Seeing my look, and melancholy expression, Arcade said with a nod, "Insum tum," before heading out.

In time. Had he been talking about my memory, or Boone?

I had dragged my feet back into the master bedroom.

I had an empty stare printed across my features. I supposed in the spirit of productivity I could have pulled out Heidi, or went over my own notes and drawings, or put away the deed to the Tops, or ten other things, but instead, I lay on the bed in a catatonic state. The door was open, and I heard Boone in the kitchen. Lately, my nightmares had increased in intensity, with the strange snowy area and small shack always lighting on fire. The man with the axe pursuing me. Horrific images. I could only imagine after seeing the horror that was Mr. House, that the nightmares would intensify.

Boone passed, glancing in; he obviously saw the strangeness on my face, because he put down the glass of water on a hallway cabinet and entered. My eyes didn't leave the ceiling of the room. Who the hell was psycho enough to axe their way into...wherever it was I was? Why had Mr. House sucked all of his own soul out through the quiet mystery of time in order to "benevolently dictate" New Vegas? What was Boone talking about when he said Carla had spoken to him? I had just spiraled off into some twilight zone Wasteland and did nothing but lay, arms and legs spreadeagled, on the soft warm bed.

"You okay?" So he had seen the probably crazy look.

Boone towered over me in his simple brown shirt, standing and looking down skeptically. I was too comfortable being a vegetable to answer him immediately. When I could speak, I ignored his question and asked another instead. "What are we doing?"

Boone sighed, looking to the side, and then sat on the edge of the bed. It was amazing how much more comfortable we were with one another now; comparatively to when we met, how he wouldn't even have paused to inquire about my status.

"Cleaning up, that's what," Boone replied resolutely. "What do you think we're doing?"

"I dunno."

"Think of all the people we've helped. You've helped. You travel fast, and wherever it is you go, you bring hope to the people around you. You helped me, and I didn't offer you anything but a few measly caps in return."

"Yeah."

"Stop it." The rudeness in his tone was the Boone I had first met, and the sound caused me to turn my head finally. His expression matched the tone; he was glaring at me.

Finally, I said something I hadn't anticipated ever telling Boone. Though both Boone and Arcade knew about the dreams I had, that sinister voice was one of my many secrets. I found myself spilling out suddenly, rapidly, to the sniper. How it echoed in my ears when I awoke, how it resonated even when I was walking by him or Arcade. How, worst of all, I believed it every time I heard it.

He didn't interrupt or give me any strange looks. He didn't sit closer to me or hold my hand the way Arcade did when I had burst into tears over whatever drunken rant we were on. Boone just sat and listened, unmoving. I didn't cry or get emotional, speaking instead in an intensely rapid monotone, pressing my palms over my eyes or rubbing them with fatigue. After I had finished telling my friend my secret, he sat for a moment, letting the silence settle. Then:

"I can't tell you that you'll never be alone. I could take a knife, or anything, in a lot worse spot any day from now. Any of us could. I never told Carla she'd never be alone either." He paused now, eyes moving to that Boone-area they so rarely moved to. "In fact...I always told her if anything ever happened to me...to move on."

Not what I was expecting. To be honest, I figured he would do a good job reassuring me that I wasn't alone. Boone was a strange one, though, and he was talking unlike I'd ever heard him talk. Though contemplative, he lacked a certain scale of broodiness he usually always mustered. I let him continue.

"Nothing's ever for sure out here. But you were alone when you found me, and you were doing all right. Impressed the hell out of Novac. I tracked you halfway across the desert to make sure you wouldn't be alone after that. I don't know when I'll leave you, but it'll be because I'm dead."

This sudden sentence made me jolt, moving upwards onto my elbows. I stared at the seriousness written on his entire face. Boone didn't say anything else, still staring at me intensely. Risking a possible grimace, I fell back onto the bed, laying on my back, propped up by the pillows. I held out my arms the way I always did to signal Arcade in for a hug.

He seemed to not understand my request, for he threw me a strange glance, but then scooted farther away from the edge of the bed, and leaned forward. Not waiting for him to extend his arms, I reached up and used Boone's shoulders to pull myself in, burying my head onto his neck and hugging him tightly. His arms braced him on the bed, but my bullet-in-the-head-sporadic affection had him in a vise, and Boone shifted so that he lay on the bed by me.

I was still leeched onto his hulking torso, and he was still propped up with an elbow, but now he put a hand onto my shoulder, the first time he'd ever really reacted physically toward any of my embraces. But he wasn't returning the hug; instead he pulled me back by my shoulder, my grip loosening as Boone pulled me to my back, where I lay on the pillows in that same catatonic state.

My eyes were focused on him, though, and Boone, now steadying himself with both elbows, didn't move from his position of hovering mere inches away from me. Not hugging him anymore, my hand moved forward to wrap around his neck. As I idly traced his throat with my fingertips, Boone closed his eyes, and slowly tilted his head toward me. Though still not embracing me, his hands rigidly supporting his own weight, he touched his forehead to mine and opened his eyes. We stared at each other in the darkness.

Boone didn't smile, and neither did I. 


	32. Ain't She Sweet?

The messenger was in awe of the great structure. Even though many men were hard at work continuing to restore it, it looked amazing. He had been pointed in this direction, and was now motioned forward by a man in a white suit.

"What's your business?"

"I'm from Jacob and the Tops," the young male courier responded, flushing. This had been his first trip out of Vegas. Jacob was a good businessman, and the male hoped to make a good impression on him by delivering this message appropriately. "I'm here for Benny?"

"Benny?" The Chairman raised an eyebrow. "'Bout what, kid?"

The courier eyed his tommy gun, and said nervously, "Um...it was a...I'm not sure. Jacob said it was important. He said Benny would know-"

"Benny, Benny, Benny, he knows everythin' that guy," said a black-haired man, dressed differently than the others. He wore a checkered suit and was rapidly walking by, looking very busy. "I gotta' million things to do here, what am I knowing?"

"Are you Benny?"

"Yeah kid, what is it?" Suddenly the impatient man seemed to have an epiphany, his eyes lighting up. "Wait a tic! You from Vegas? From Jacob?"

"Yes sir. The message I was supposed to deliver you is..." Jacob had been dubious about it, griping that he wouldn't get his caps from so vague and meaningless a traveler. Benny had said 'look for the tall smooth blond in a red beret' and she had fit the bill, but not knowing irked Jacob no end. "...the girl asks, how it feels to be off the tee." It made no sense.

Apparently it did for Benny, for the man threw his head back and laughed, rolling up the blueprints in his hands. "Off the T, is that what she wants to know? How about that! What some kinda broad."

He grinned and shook his head, motioning toward the Chairman in white. "Give the kid a thousand caps." Benny waved the blueprints, walking off. "And tell Jacob to tell her the cross wasn't all the rage anyway. I'd shoot you in the head kid if I thought you'd be half as amazin' as her."

The courier was utterly and totally lost. "I'll...get the message through, sir."

The Chairman nodded. "Come on, let's get those caps, junior."

Benny waved, now jogging down the large, exquisitely decorated hallway. 


	33. Benedictatu in mulierbus

Boone and I headed up to the suite in the Lucky 38. We had a productive day; speaking to the NCR Embassy proved helpful. Though the group had a few particular members I was less than fond of, much like the Kings, overall I was impressed with the group's efforts. While there, the ambassador requested that Boone and I go speak with a group he called "Boomers" whom I had never heard of at all. According to him they hoarded ammunition, and refused to choose sides with either NCR or the Legion, or anyone for that matter.

It sounded promising; anything anti-Legion had my vote, and I would rather have the large munitions at the hands of the responsible NCR than anyone else in the Wasteland. After marking the location, Boone and I decided to set out in that direction after a few days of rest in Vegas. We sauntered past the strip on the way back, finally making our way back "home."

With no Mr. House, I supposed it really was home. Logging onto the terminal, I realized there were unread notes in the system. Lowering my eyebrows, I commented, "I suppose these are from the casino leasers...that's what the addresses say...why are they showing here?" Scratching my head, I answered my own question: "I think that Mr. House's network opened them up for him to read, but now that he isn't alive anymore, they're re-routed to his default network which I have access to."

Boone walked to the wardrobe, shrugging off his large NCR jacket and hanging it inside. He dug through the clothes, looking for a suitable shirt, scowling when he accidentally picked up a piece of lingerie. I was eagerly reading the notes left from casino owners. Their rent was ready, deposited into a safe on the side of the Lucky 38. Several reported possible power outages, maintenance issues, or simply provided gossip to the now-deceased ruler. I didn't quite know what to do. If they found out he was dead, what sort of chaos would erupt? As Boone muttered about the lack of organization in non-military closets, I quickly thought up a plan.

Typing at the speed of light, I replied to all their queries as Mr. House would. I pulled up the note history list to see his usual "speech habits" with his tenants and families. I promised to take a look at the unlit hallway in Gommorah, and the leaky bathtubs in the Tops. I didn't thank them for their rent, simply acknowledging that I received it at Mr. House had done in previous responses. Then I wrote a separate note for all of them, detailing me as Mr. House's new personal assistant. Acting as the dictator, I detailed to the families that I would be the one to speak to from now on and answered directly to him, the House. I even threw in some offhand story about how I had ran the Chairmen out for not cooperating (as this was a hot topic in the notes) and that the "Courier with the red beret" was solely in charge of that casino.

Proud of my work, I hit the send button, and sat back in the chair. Effectively avoiding a crisis and giving myself authority in the city, I had put myself at ease, at least momentarily. One note had caught my eye: it was addressed to all the casino families and Mr. House, from the White Glove Society. Apparently, they had just finished remodeling the casino's grad theatre to their standards, and wanted acts for the grand opening. No hookers or junkies, they requested. Tasteful, talented people. Surely Mr. House knew the appropriate people.

Music skills were a rarity in the desert, but musicians existed as sure as buried Couriers existed. And I pondered over the email, realizing that just as I had an extended library of computer skills, I was pretty sure I knew music. Had I played an instrument before the bullet?

"Boone," I said, not looking away from the note. "Let's go get Arcade. I want to go to the Ultra-Luxe."

"Okay," he said doubtfully. I looked up finally, because the 'okay' had not been assured.

Boone was dressed in a black shirt and black pants, something I'd never seen him in. He withdrew his shades from the pocket of his jacket and put them on. I was staring.

He stared back grumpily.

"Err..."

"If you want to go, then let's go," he said, moving toward the elevator. I picked up my bag, full of books and odds and ends, and followed him out.

Last night, we laid on the bed gazing into each other's eyes for an endless amount of time, both of us I think, terrified to move. Then Boone had backed away, wordlessly, ready to go back to his own bed, but without Arcade around I would have none of it. I beseeched him to stay, and to my great surprise he did. And he didn't roll over in bed to face the other direction, either. Rigid, he lay down and laced his hands behind his head, elbows out. I fell asleep on my side, facing him. When I had awoken this morning, he was still on his back, unmoved, and I was draped over his chest.

He had been his usual broody self all morning though. He cheered up a little while at the NCR Embassy, but that was probably because of the candid First-Recon remarks the troopers made to me, noting their jealousy and respect for Boone. Now, however, going back to a casino-one that creeped Boone out, he told me as we descended-had dimmed his mood right back down.

Arcade was working with Emily at the Mormon Fort. When Boone and I came to pick him up, he told me though they'd worked all hours of the night, only one layer of encryption was gone. This both frustrated and excited him. "It must be something worth hiding, if you went through all this trouble. I don't know how you did it."

That made me uneasy. "If I wanted to hide it that badly, maybe..."

"It'll be FINE." Arcade waved his hand. "It's not like you were a serial killer or something."

Or had I been?

I was no fan of confined spaces, and the Ultra-Luxe's theatre was tailored specifically for me. It was vast, with rows upon rows of red velvet chairs. While giving us the tour, Chauncey pointed out how many Freesiders and broke gamblers had slaved over cleaning and scrubbing the theatre from top to bottom. The White Glove Society paid them small sums for the work, and now the theatre dubbed "Felton Theatre" by Mortimer, was ready for its first debut performance.

Mortimer had put Chauncey in charge of talents, and the entire Society were kissing my ass to a painful extent thanks to my feigned email from Mr. House. If Arcade or Boone found their doting strange, neither said a word. We got the grand tour from level one, up to the balcony seats, and back down to the orchestra pit, where authentic pre-War instruments had been preserved intact thanks to House's staving off nukes. Several already-hired musicians, some of them White Glove Society members themselves, were busy strumming or playing or attempting to play these marvelous things.

I did know music. "This one is called a cello!" I said excitedly to Arcade, and that...that's a violin!"

"Think you can play any of them?" Arcade asked, thumbing the propped up cello.

"Not that I can recall." A young man picked up a flute and blew on it. We all turned to listen, enchanted. Chauncey approached, handing me a stack of papers. "There are tons of these stored in the pit, I believe it's how you read the music."

As Arcade and Boone listened to the flute, I glanced down at the booklet. Though the paper was worn, I could make out the symbols just fine. As my eyes slid over the notes, they made absolutely no sense at all. Maybe I didn't play an instrument. Just as my hopes sank to the floor, I looked down from the funny little bars and dots. There were words, but not your typically written words.

O-s i us-ti-me di- ta-bi- tur sa-pi-en- tiam - et-

It looked familiar immediately. I hummed the song, following along, and soon the flute player paused to look at me. Chauncey, Boone, and Arcade all turned as well. Boone, surprisingly, spoke first.  
"You've sang that before," he said, "in your sleep."

"What a pretty voice! Sing some more!" Chauncey was delighted.

"Latin!" Arcade's eyes lit up.

I held the music sheepishly, but excitedly. "I think I know how to...sing."

"Then, come on, try it some more. You could be onstage tomorrow night for the unveiling!" Chauncey led me out of the orchestra pit and up the stairs.

Arcade led the sniper through the winding maze of balcony boxes to theirs, a front row seat complete with cushioned couches, bottles of wine, flowers...they looked as though they were on a date. Arcade had chosen a white pre-War tux, something that reminded Boone of the King. The only tuxedo in Mr. House's casino that even fit Boone's wide shoulders and sculpted arms without looking like a tent was a black pre-War tux that had a bow tie. While the Courier primped for her performance with the White Glove Society, the men had gotten ready and for some unholy reason, Arcade knew how to tie a bow tie. He forced Boone to stand still, and after the tie was on, tried to convince him for twenty minutes to take the beret off.

Not only had Boone declined, but he also wore his dark sunglasses. He was not a fan of the Luxe, or their clothes, or their masks, or anything. Also, since they seemed to suck up to the Courier so much, he took the liberty of bringing Rex. No one could say anything, for fear of upsetting the Courier, even though several members complained of the happily trotting cyber dog.

Rex propped himself up on the edge of the balcony, paws hanging over, and surveyed the room. It was filling up quickly; tuxedos and evening gowns adorned the entire seating area. Staff, wearing the signature cream-colored suits, escorted guests and stood in the entryways. Though she wouldn't let them hear her practice, apparently the girl had made the final act. According to Arcade, this was a good thing. Boone wasn't familiar with theatre courtesies.

At promptly 7pm the lights dimmed, Boone leaned back for a nap, arms crossed, and the first player, the flute soloist who'd charmed them yesterday, took the stage. As performer after performer went up, Boone was thinking about Carla. She'd lived in Vegas, and at the time she met him, was trying to become a White Glove member. The girl had loved the ritzy appeal of the creepy place, but for whatever reason, no matter what she did, she couldn't get accepted. This in turn pissed off Carla so bad she began to loathe the Society, and told Boone after they were dating that he wasn't to set foot inside the place.

It wasn't as though Boone had some deep-seated desire to gamble with strange masked men and women. The wrong kind of kink for him. However, the part of him that wasn't complaining internally was both excited and nervous to see the tall, rough, no-prisoners Courier try to fit in. She didn't seem the type, unlike Carla, to mold into the snot-nosed primpy...

Her name had just been announced over the microphone; Arcade elbowed Boone, who sat upright as the light dimmed. A series of light notes floated up into the box, and Boone's eyes narrowed. Arcade, ever helpful, supplied, "The accompanying instrument is a harp."

Then the curtain parted, and the entire audience seemed to inhale slightly.

She was tall, pale, lean. The girl's hair was down, and lay around her shoulders in golden waves. It was without a doubt her, but...she was jaw-dropping stunning. Even Arcade was slack-jawed. The dress she wore was thin-strapped, white, with a tall waist. Whatever fabric used had been kept in tip-top condition; it was spotless and stood out all the better against her pale skin.

She sauntered out onto the middle of the stage, holding her shoulders back and lifting her chin. She had been given a special mask to wear to perform; unlike the plain white and gold masks donned by the Society, this one was ornate, shimmering in the lights of the stage with her dress. Long elbow-length gloves ran up her slender arms, and golden shoes sparkled, peeping out as she continued to step.

When the Courier, underneath the mask, opened her mouth, crystalline innocence and purity seemed to emanate from her, radiating off the pure white of her being. Within a few words, Arcade said excitedly, "She's singing in Latin."

The language spoken by Caesar and his sea of Red had always been utterly despicable to Boone under any circumstances. He habitually ground his teeth whenever Arcade or the Courier spoke it to one another. Here however, it sounded angelic. She sang, and he felt a strange feeling rising inside...was this what peace felt like? Hatred, and even routine grumpiness, melted and he simply enjoyed the melody.

And what kind of woman was this, that could turn from a ruthless killer to a beautiful, magical creature in less than a day? Carla or no, NCR or no, Boone had never felt so captivated by anything in his entire life. The mask was admittedly gorgeous; every time she barely moved her head, it gleamed in a new spot, the light reflecting across the arc of stagelight. But it was only a half-mask; Boone glimpsed her mouth forming the words of the song she sang so delicately.

Though he didn't know he wasn't the only one, Boone's vision swam and he had a lump in his throat. Never, in his entire life, had he been moved in such a nurturing way. Even her hair glinted in the light. For a moment, the Wasteland had vanished, and there was no Legion, no NCR, no New Vegas. It was as though Boone existed in a cleaner, prettier, and more hopeful pre-War world, one that saw war as a threat, not a daily occurrence.

When the song ended on its last melodic notes, the Courier lifted the mask, pulling it up to reveal her bright, shining face, green eyes mirroring the white of the lights that shone on her as she bowed amid thunderous applause. When she bowed, her blond locks fell forward, hiding her face, and Arcade pulled the stunned Boone to his feet so they could continue to applaud.

Rex barked happily. 


	34. A Fort in Nellis

I was mostly stunned and proud of Boone and myself for surviving the barrage of explosions that greeted us at Nellis. Boone, never one too thrilled at finding himself alive, was far more angry toward the Boomers. While I could understand his impatience at a people so backwards and sheltered that they just blew up anything that came toward them, he seemed to be holding a grudge. At my request, he helped clear out the generators where the ants had taken up residence, and sat on the roof handing me tools to repair the solar panels. But he spoke barely a word all day, letting his anger seethe. I didn't disturb him with idle conversation.

I didn't mind helping the Boomers, and indeed felt akin to them in some way. They were frightened of the fighting and what had happened to the world. They were, by a stroke of luck, sitting on a horrendously large stockpile of weapons that they could use to defend themselves. Honestly, I saw their logic. And the same mistrust and fear they seemed to thrive in struck a personal chord with me. Before Benny, I had been terrorized. I had been a loner and someone who traveled just to...get away from it all.

While Boone and I were networking with the Boomers, Arcade was nose-deep in encoding. Apparently he and Emily found great pleasure in untying my complex codes, and on the side, they used their Followers relationship with the NCR to search database upon database for the name on the back of the picture. NCR's notes and findings were all stored in one megabase in California; it was here that the Followers had sent the data. Perhaps also contributing to Boone's sour mood, Rex had wanted to stay with Arcade, making it obvious via whines and barks that he didn't want the man to leave him.

I found most of the Boomers to be hilarious, but the kids and I got along great. Earlier today, after slaving away on the solar panels, we saw the lot of them exit the school, and I headed over. They were deeply curious about the Outsiders, and we all let off steam by kicking around a broken robot head in the huge parking lot for the once-airport. It was rough going; there were potholes, the ground was uneven, and gravel littered the terrain. Still, we formed makeshift teams and goals, and a primitive game was born. To my great surprise, when the older boys pulled the steadfast Boone into the group, demanding he use his skills to help beat "the girls", Boone conceded and ran and dodged with the rest of us.

Soon the sun was setting, and Pearl exited her quarters, motioning us to come toward her.

"You'll need a bed, I expect. I've taken care of it."

"Er..."

"Not a word. Least we can do. We owe you a lot."

bed? No plural?

Pearl pointed to what looked like a nesting shack. Boone and I both craned our necks to stare up at it.

"Sorry we don't have any inside beds, but I had some of the younger ones fix this one up for you. They were eager to help. If you need anything, just knock."

She dipped her head before backing into the cabin she lived in and shutting us out. I was so bemused by the fact that the kids had wanted to set Boone and I up with a "skybed" that I momentarily forgot the sleeping arrangements themselves. This changed when we ascended the ladder into the once-snipers nest.

It was high, at least thirty feet off the ground, with a makeshift half-roof and railing, not a lot of wiggling room. The kids had hauled up a mattress, no small feat, and this took up most of the floor. To my delight, they also brought clean sheets, blankets, pillowcases. The Boomers, being who they were, also left us a bucket of complimentary grenades (with a note in childish handwriting that read 'in case you want to blow stuff up.' There was also a crate of food, of filtered water, and at least thirty pillows. I suspected the kids spent some time up here playing "fort" before informing Pearl that our "room" was ready.

If Boone found any of this humorous or endearing at all, he didn't show it. Instead, like a true soldier doing something he doesn't want to do in a robotic fashion, he sat on the large mattress, pulling off his boots. Boone rarely gets this comfortable when he sleeps; I figured he knew as well as I did that the Boomers were the biggest shield in the Mojave. We could sleep easy tonight; even a bloatfly would get brained with eighteen warheads if it decided to buzz too closely to the encampment.

He really was in a bad mood; Boone lay down and immediately turned away from where I sat, untying my own boots. I looked over my shoulder at him, confused at the attitude, but he just curled away and pulled the blanket with him. I put my hands on my hips-when he tugged, the blanket had came out from under my butt, nearly knocking me over-and kicked off the boot angrily. Then I took two fistfuls of blanket and pulled. The cover slipped off Boone. Now I lay, completely smothered in blankets, and closed my eyes.

Boone turned and sat up. He grabbed the blanket and pulled. I wrapped both arms and legs around it, glaring at him.

"Stop it," he said impatiently.

"No."

"Give me the blanket."

"It's not even cold."

"Now."

"Snipers are used to sleeping in adverse weather conditions."

"Do what I say."

"Keep dreaming."

Boone grabbed my hand, trying to force the blanket out of my clamp, and I leaned over and bit his arm.

"What's wrong with you!"

"I'm cold."

"It's not even cold," he mocked. When I turned, incredulous, to look at him, Boone snatched the blanket.

Now I sat up, uncovered once again. Of all the...

I plucked up one of the fluffy pillows. Although I really would have liked to smother him with it, I opted to hit Boone upside the head.

"Goddammit!" Now he rounded on me.

"Give me the pillow!"

"I don't know who you normally boss around, Mr. Boone, but..."

I hit him again. When the pillow slammed into his face and then fell away from it, Boone's glare was so withering that my teeth began to hurt. I giggled.

"Fine." Irate, he grabbed a pillow, and slammed it into my face.

The giggles had stopped. I glared.

We stared at each other for a moment, then dove for the pillow pile, ruthlessly decking each other, pummel after pummel, a white cascade of feathers rising from the sniper shack. After probably five minutes of flailing around, Boone finally pinned me. I was half-mad; he was livid.

Straddling me on the mattress, he said sharply while holding my hands at the wrists, "Stop acting like a goddamn child!"

Not trying to escape, I nonetheless reached for a pillow. Boone clamped his hand down over mine.

"STOP."

I went lax, closing my eyes and forfeiting the struggle.

"Fine."

He didn't believe me; Boone kept me pinned for another thirty seconds, breathing hard. I kept my eyes closed and tried to feign sleep, but a grin crept onto my face. Finally he removed the forceful grip on my wrists, laying back down and carefully taking exactly one half of the blankets. I rolled away from him, and Boone's eyes were like hot steel burning into my back. He watched my every move, but neither of us changed positions until well after the lights in Pearl's shack were off, until the golden sky was black. In the darkness, I stirred, and Boone said, "Get your hand off my beret. Now."

"ooooops," I chided innocently, and Boone sighed. He turned from his side onto his back, and made a motion I couldn't decipher in the dark, before lacing his hands behind his head.

"What?" I asked, all humor cast aside.

"Closer," he said simply.

I lay with my head in the crook of Boone's shoulder, my hands folded over my chest. He lay as usual on his back, hands cradling his head, elbows out.

And for the first time since McCarran, we had quiet dreams. 


	35. First Realization

"Can't we just leave now?" Boone asked through his teeth as we exited Pearl's cabin. The older woman had agreed to back me up, to have the Boomers back me up, if ever I needed it. Telling her about the inevitable battle at Hoover Dam didn't make her blink. And now there was nothing more for us in Nellis, except to say goodbye.

I glared at Boone. He had been more upset than usual while traveling with me to the Air Force base. I didn't know if it was the absence of Rex or even Arcade, but for whatever unclear reason, he didn't appear to want to travel alone with me. This stung, of course, but I had dealt with it by acting normally. For all I knew, he was suffering a severe bout of depression that had nothing to do with me (even though he did seem to enjoy taking it out on me.)

"I know you're as social as a Radscorpion but I like to make friends when I travel." I nodded at the little shanty to the northeast of Nellis. "That's the history museum Pearl told us about. Let's check it out." We had already confirmed I was a complete nerd pre-headshot. Boone set his jaw but didn't argue. As a pair we walked inside, squinting at the sudden lack of sunlight, the young apprentice museum attendant offered the tour, then guided us over to the far wall, where a mural had been painted.

While Pete, the young Boomer who called himself "Keeper of the Story" told us the history of the Boomers, I gazed on that smudgy black painting depicting the ancient bomber, dropping missile after missile, flames sprouting from the trail on the ground where the bombs landed. It entered my head at that moment that no matter what, humans were destined to destroy. For someone who up until this time had the thought of changing that mentality, it came as a pretty hard blow to the stomach.

"What?" Pete said a little defensively, seeing the strained look on my face. His voice snapped me out of it, out of the thought. Humans are destined to destroy each other, no matter what. Even the Great War hadn't stopped us.

"I..." I swallowed. "That's a great story, Pete."

"Yeah? You really think so?" his young, eager face was uplifted.

"Yes."

After saying a few more goodbyes, and wishing Jack and Janet the best of luck, Boone and I made our final trek outside the hangar and toward the exit of Nellis. It was still early morning, and I was reluctant to leave without saying goodbye to the kids we had became famous around this whole long, agonizing week. Typically, we would catch up with them in the late afternoon hours, over on the old runways, before they had to go to dinner. But with the sun barely peaking in the east, they wouldn't be out for several hours.

However, we got lucky. As Boone and I rounded the south side of the hangar, where the barracks were, we saw the long procession of children heading off toward the schoolhouse. A few of the older kids saw us and waved. I waved back enthusiastically. Glancing at Boone, and seeing his stony face not deepening at the sight of the children, I broke away and jogged toward the group.

"You're leaving?" one of the older boys wailed. "That stinks!"  
"I know..." I agreed. "But I'll be back, I promise."  
"You should come see our classroom! You haven't even seen it!" Justin, another boy piped in.  
"Yeah you can see all of our artwork! We got to draw pictures of the Lady yesterday cause of you!"  
"Plus you haven't met the teacher. I bet she wants to know all about Outsiders."  
"Just for a minute!"  
By now, several of the kids were tugging at my hoodie, pulling my arm. Boone had approached, and they pressured him as well.

"Okay, well let's stop in. I want to see your artwork, for sure." With a collective cheer, the twenty-or-so Boomer children led Boone and I up to the schoolhouse. To be sure, it wasn't a 'house' but instead a Quonset hut. The hospital and museum were of the same build, and they reminded me of somewhere, though I couldn't put a finger on where.

The class rushed in, Boone and I taking it slower. They all had desks, where they sat their books and belongings, then turned back to the two of us. The teacher, not used to all the commotion of two strangers being escorted into the school room, stood from the desk and looked curiously over.

"See, here's my picture of the Lady right here!" Papers littered the walls. Slowly, in a daze, I turned to look at them.  
"I drew her floating on the Lake, that's how Loyal said it looked!"  
"I wish I could've seen her come up..." one girl said sadly.  
The dark room with its bowed ceiling, full of children, seemed to collapse on top of me.

Boone glanced at the wall of scribbly charcoal artwork, then back to the Courier. Even in the dark light, he frowned, because he knew something was wrong. She seemed in a trance, and as he watched, slowly started to tremble. Boone was a far more intuitive and instinctive person than he sometimes conveyed, and right now his senses told him to get her out.

Interrupting the louder-than-each-other children, he said, "We'll be right back," and Boone grabbed the girl by the shoulders; she almost fainted, falling aside, still in that trance-like state. Had he not gripped her, she would have fallen on her face. Now steadied by him, she tripped out the door, Boone kicking it shut. She seemed to have regained some consciousness, for the Courier pummeled him in the chest, pulling away.

Boone let her go; she stumbled forward and bent at the waist, gasping for air, as though she were motion sick. He stepped forward. "What is it?"

Now she lowered herself onto her haunches, wrapping her long arms around her torso, still trembling. The girl shook her head in reply. When she finally turned to face Boone, shaking, he was taken aback with her horrified expression. All the color was gone from her cheeks, two glistening lines of tears over the pale waxen skin. Even her lips were pale. Terror was in her eyes as he'd never seen it. Boone thought back to what Ada had said in Novac: the Courier was a time-bomb. She certainly looked deranged.

"I..."

"Did you see something? What?" Forgetting his anger, Boone dropped to one knee beside her.

Now she responded, instead of the bold voice a teensy squeak coming out.

"I was a teacher." 


	36. Don't Interrupt, Oliver

The walk back to Vegas was a doleful one; clouds littered the sky, making most of the trip grey. Boone was still acting oddly and keeping his distance. I had no idea what I might've done to him, but he seemed disinterested in anything having to do with me. To be honest, though it hadn't bothered me at first, I could feel my feet dragging now. I didn't want Boone to put a wall back up between us. Even while holding me as we exited the Boomer schoolhouse, I sensed that he was pushing away. It was devastating, actually, considering what happened at McCarran and at the Lucky 38.

Boone had walked behind me all way, careful to keep distance. I longed for Arcade; to tell him about my groundbreaking realization triggered by the only functioning classroom in probably the entire Mojave. It wasn't as though tons of memories rushed back; the dome-shaped structure which was set on fire repeatedly in my dreams had been my school. There were no desks, but instead several tables, piles of books and objects, a jumbled space and even a fireplace which we had read books by. I could feel my former self there momentarily as well; I was stressed, worried, paranoid even. Like I was waiting for a time bomb to go off.

All these things and more I wanted to talk to Boone about, to ponder about. But the more days had gone by, the more distant he'd gotten. Now we sat by the campfire, me hunched over a book, him laying on a bedroll on his back in the regular hands-behind-head position. I was holding the book up as though reading it, but staring only at him. Between the Legion and NCR, Vegas, Mr. House, the Families, and all my nightmares and quests to discover myself, I never had time to dwell on how I felt. But I realized on this brisk night in the Mojave, with no Arcade around to stimulate my brain, no Rex to look after, and a soldier who was barely speaking to me, that I cared so much about Craig Boone I couldn't even describe it.

The time for ignoring things was over. Without meaning to, I said out loud, "Craig."

He turned, not getting up, a look of harsh annoyance on his face at the name. "What?"

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Like what." The bitterness in his voice was clear. He knew what I was talking about.

"What did I do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," was his scoffing response.

Though I could have gotten mad, I simply stuffed the book closer to my face, trembling with anger and...ache, and unfairness. His difficult nature was getting to me, and there was nothing I could do or say to change it. Though Oliver Twist was a large book to hide behind, he must have seen the depression seeping through anyway. Boone sat up, and sighed.

"Look. I wasn't going to say anything, and thought I could get over it. Obviously not."

I lowered the book.

"When you told me to pack, I did. I was trying to make sure we had all the necessities, and something fell out of your bag. I wasn't sure if it was something we needed, or something that could stay, so I opened it for the sole reason of checking." His voice dropped, and now the annoyance had vanished, and so did Boone's wall, a small amount. "It was a letter from Benny, that guy who shot you."

Oh, fuck. "Boone-"

"I'm sorry I even opened it," he said, talking over me. "I know it wasn't my business. But. I don't know. I had this feeling...I don't know what it was. I'm not good at saying things like this. My job is to protect you, and I'll do that as long as you want me to. But..." he shrugged, running out of words. And though you may not think so, that is a ton of words in Boone Speak.

Now he lay back down, palms under his head, and though I wanted to say an endless amount of things back, I could think of nothing, and something told me that Boone wouldn't listen to anything anyway. So I put my nose back in the book, my eyes glazing over, my mind a million miles away from London and Fagin and everyone else in the story. 


	37. An Overqualified Courier

Dejected didn't even come close to describing how I felt all the way back to Vegas. I don't know what I was expecting from Boone, but now I could expect nothing at all. The Mojave seemed just as lonely as it did when I had bravely stepped foot out of Goodsprings, even when Boone busied himself with making a fire or cooking a meal for both of us. He never failed in his job as a spotter, and seemed keen on getting back to Vegas.

Then, "I don't get it. Why did he shoot you?"

We were less than a mile away from the Vegas entrance, and I paused to look at Boone as though he were an extraterrestrial. "What?"

"You must have been..." Boone shrugged, not understanding what he wanted to say. "Before your memory loss, I mean..."

While still staring like a baffoon, it occurred to me how little Boone had known about the situation. Through my own tight-lipped nature, I had neglected to tell him anything other than the fact Mr. House wanted the Platinum Chip. With me journeying to the Fort, with me saving Benny, it must have looked like far, far more than what it was.

I was still staring at Boone as this realization hit me, and now he looked oddly back, probably wondering if my zone-out was due to his comment, or the fact that my head was barely held together. Finally, I gathered myself, "We weren't anything. I never even knew Benny." I felt like a fucking idiot for not bothering to confide the full story of the Platinum chip with the sniper, but it was too late to really worry about that now. "He just wanted to take over Vegas with Yes Man."

Boone looked skeptical. "You two weren't..."

"No."

The resolute negative seemed to brighten him, though he only responded with "Huh." However, for the rest of the walk, his steps were easier, and he didn't lag ten feet behind me, walking closer than he had for the entire Boomer journey.

"We still have tons of decoding to do. I think the terminal where you actually wrote the information had a special encrypted system so you could pop a disc in, download or upload data, save and..." Arcade snapped his fingers. "Unfortunately, it would take as long for us to re-program a drive in that manner, as it would for us to unload all this whatever it is you have. But let me show you what we've got."

Boone, Arcade, Emily and I were sitting at one of the large, empty dining tables in the dimly lit Lucky 38. Though the place was spooky in ways that I can't really describe, it was also secluded, cool, and clean. Maybe it was the cleanliness that scared me. Arcade solved that by spilling the contents of his folder across the red tablecloth.

"Firstly, the concrete information. Your picture with Liam. We've located several "Anna and Ronalds" but only one with the surname starting with a K. Kenworthy."

"That's Liam's last name, I know it," I said brightly.

"Perfect. They live in a little settlement called Harris Springs." Arcade had salvaged a map from who knew where, and dusted it off, pointing to a circle he'd drawn. "It's actually not too far away, about a week if you make good time. I don't know much about them, other than they have an address with the Mojave Express. Which, by the way."

Arcade nodded at Emily, who picked up, "I was able to get in contact with one of the managers of the Mojave Express, who, believe it or not, actually hired you. I made up what I had to in order to get information concerning you." she flipped open a small, worn notebook. "You were hired about three months before the Goodsprings incident. According to him, you applied for the job but seemed extremely over-qualified. When he asked for references, you said you had none. No family, no friends. He said that although he could tell you were one of the most intelligent people he'd met in the Wasteland, something seemed 'not quite right' as though you were fleeing from something." She was reading the notes she no doubt jotted down while interviewing this man. I was hanging on her every word.

"He said you could deliver more efficiently than anyone else on the entire team, said you were more than proficient, but over the time period made no friends, rarely spoke to anyone. He thought you were hooked on some kind of chems because you were so jittery, on edge. But he didn't worry about it too much, since you did your job and did it well. He also said you were horrible with the guns that all couriers are required to carry. Said you didn't want anything to do with it."

I didn't really know what to think about all this. Arcade must have sensed my crestfallen feeling, because he squeezed my shoulder. Emily put down the notepad.

"I can see that," Boone piped up suddenly, startling us all. "You can't shoot worth a damn."

"Hey. Who saved your ass by sniping Legionnaires?"

"Barely." Boone's tone was lighthearted, and I mimiced his glare of doom before we continued.

"Although it seems unlikely you would've had an education if you didn't have a family, since schools are hard to come by, we did make the connection here," Arcade picked back up, patting my stack of books. "Oliver Twist. Orphan. A Little Princess, story of an orphan. Great Expectations, Pip, orphan. Heidi, orphan. It would seem you were without some semblance of a family at some point, because these books obviously meant a lot to you. So we know for sure that you lived in the mountains, and...we've pinpointed where."

He paused dramatically and Emily jumped back in, "The manager I spoke with still had some of your information on file. You did come from the mountains, according to him. Said you were not really familiar with the desert, had a hard time dealing with the heat and lack of elevation. You were definitely in the mountains most of your life if that's the case. And here's the one you cited as 'home' when talking to the Mojave Express." She pointed to another circled spot on the map.

My eyes lit up, happy to remember it. "Griffith Peak."

"It's a huge mountain," Arcade said, geographical genius to be expected. "Over 9000 feet. Even this time of year I bet it's loaded with snow. And the Kensingtons are located on the way."

"So," Boone said again, his low voice so different than Arcade's, "An orphaned teacher with a great education suddenly emerges from snowy mountains to do lowly courier work...why?"

"Don't ask me," I said sadly. "I have no idea."

Arcade tilted his head. "I think we all know something terrible happened on that peak. You have nightmares, you came into the Mojave scared and jittery. These files of yours are so well-protected, a near-paranoia case is evident. It's like you never wanted anyone to read them."

"Have you recovered any of the data on them?" Actually, I didn't think I wanted to know, at this point.

"Only a bit," Emily responded. "You seem to have a large written document, perhaps a journal or datebook, but we did decrypt a complete address book, which is where we found the Kensington address that matched the one in the NCR directory. None of the others seem to be of real relevance, except one which has the title 'home.' You gave the latitude and longitude, which we were able to map out...here." Pointing at another circle on Griffith Peak.

"You guys are amazing," I said with a sigh. "I don't know how to repay you." Though I couldn't say as much with Emily here, I knew where the thousands of caps from the Families' rent was going to go. I would hand it over to the Followers first thing in the morning. 


	38. 38 No Help from Biscuit

I never saw it coming. Boone was one to make fun of my gun skills, but even if I'd been as swift as the sniper, there was nothing I could do tonight.

Earlier I left the bustle of Vegas alone, to instead visit Freeside. Not because it was my favorite place on earth, merely because the King and some of his cronies were actually performing at the Atomic Wrangler. The dusty little stage may not have looked like much, especially after I got accustomed to Ultra-Luxe's huge concert theatre, but the packed audience was entranced by the sight of the Kings and their dance moves. From retrieving the holotapes and mimicing the moves of whoever the original King was, they had a full set and attracted tourists from all over, some even venturing like me from their hotels in Vegas to see the show. I glimpsed Beatrix Russell in the cheering, rowdy crowd, catcalling at the King.

The King...when he slid down the pole from the second story, lithe as I'd never seen him, he immediately took the role of leader to entertainer, doing the strange signature dance, moving his hips, his hair liquid black under the stage lights. At one point in their Jailhouse song, he'd slid on his knees across the stage and pointedly winked at me, which threw me into a fit of laughter. And caused me several irked looks from the barely-dressed groupies standing around.

But shortly after their show, the Kings and the clients in the Atomic Wrangler were all partying, and I had to head back to the Lucky 38. Rex was my only pal as we crossed the dark streets, Arcade and Boone opting to pass on the lewd Freeside entertainment. That's when I felt the glass smash against the back of my head, and the dirty town spun in a circle as I dropped to my knees.

"Why...always...in the head," I said, my eyes crossing, falling from my knees to land facefirst in the pavement.

I came to slowly, a dull throbbing in the back of my head. How much longer would I hold together, and what fucked up memories would this concussion trigger...I tried to lift my hands to my head, but it was no use. They were bound in front of me, connected to another rope that was tied around my waist. I was laying sideways on the ground, and I shivered; I had been given no blanket, nothing. Now I sat up. It seemed to be early morning, but I had no idea where I was, other than it was outside, in the Wasteland, far far away from Vegas.

"Well well, look who the fuck it is," said a snide voice. I rolled onto my back, looking up at the circle of men.

The Omertas.

"So Mr. House has a new personal aide, is that it?" One of the men in white asked. "Heir to the throne? I don't fuckin' think so."

"Maybe he knew what we was up to, and that's why he hired a flesh and blood cronie to check shit out."

I closed my eyes against the headache, still slightly drunken from my stint in the Wrangler. They thought Mr. House hired me because of my terminal message. Thrilling.

"Well either way, I don't see why we haven't killed the bitch," there were six total. They all held the signature Omerta fully-auto rifle. I sighed, not bothering to sit up.

"Or better. Some things is fun the warmer the whore," came a hungry-sounding reply.

"No, the agreement was alive. We don't deliver, we don't get the goods. What part of that don't you thick skulls understand?"

"And what part of the agreement said she had to stay untouched?"

The man, obviously used to just shedding his pants and raping girls who were tied and helpless, descended upon me. Thankfully, my legs were free, and my boot connected with his teeth. He reeled backwards, spitting up blood and hopefully a few incisors, cursing loudly.

"Fuck it!" he said, grabbing my hoodie and jerking me to a sitting position. I gagged at the sudden lack of air, and was thrust forward from the force of his shoving. The man backhanded me, the beret flying off and landing in the dust. I chanced a look at it; there, in the corner of Boone's patch...the Platinum Chip glinted.

They didn't know.

Whatever idiotic plan these guys had, it didn't involve anything but getting rid of me. I thought of Boone, Arcade...I couldn't even get to my Pip-Boy to see where the hell I was. And now, thanks to the backhand, my nose and mouth smarted, blood springing up from both nostrils and my busted lip. I licked it tenderly, thoughtfully, as the enraged Omerta-obviously on some sort of chems-pulled out his pistol and jammed it into the side of my temple.

"You like that, huh? That better for you than a pork? You couldn't just play nice, now you're getting a different kind of shaft on your face, you stupid cunt," he jerked my hair, the pistol pushed so roughly against my head that I cried out involuntarily.

The other men didn't seem to care about their deal too much; they were having fun watching his display of power. Snarling grins were etched on their faces, guns held lax. I had no way out, and to beat it all, I was about to get shot in the head. As my hair was pulled violently back further still, the Omerta slid the hammer on his pistol.

"Oh well, guess he's getting a dead House cronie," the Omerta shrugged. I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing the chances of getting out of two bullets in the head were slim to none. 


	39. 39 DejaVu for Benny

The Omerta Family, high on chems and craving bloodshed, looked on as their enraged brother pressed his pistol to my temple. My face was strained, my eyes shut, thoughts of Boone and Liam whizzing through my scrambled egg as Benny called it, as I prepared to release myself from life.

When the shots rang out, I immediately, instinctively hit the ground on my belly, tucking my face into the dust, squinting and coughing from dirt inhaled, and tried not to die of shock at the fact that someone, or some people had crested the hill and were now taking up a fight with the Omertas. The way my luck was going, they were probably raiders, or fiends, but I chanced rolling over onto my back.

I was protected, surrounded by steely men in white. I blinked, not realizing that they weren't the Omertas. The men who stood between me and the thugs all had their guns pressed to their shoulders, a wide spray of bullets spitting out and cutting into all of the brothers. I sat up suddenly, my vision swimming, my throat caked with blood.

"The...you're...Chairmen!"

And now another figure crested the hill; nonchalantly, brandishing his pistol with a cigarette in his mouth. It was Benny.

"Jackasses..." he muttered, emptying his magazine into the few groaning, dying Omertas strewn across the dusty ground. At his approach, the Chairmen parted robotically, and Benny's eyes lit up, realizing I was alive.

"Wow, and this'll make time two that I've seen this scene. Last time, though..." Benny looked at his silver and gold pistol contemplatively, then pocketed it. "And there you are, pretty as a peach just like last time. Bloody, little roughed up, but this time we've got no beef..." He tossed the cigarette away, stooping down and pulling out a switchblade. Benny wiggled his eyebrows as he flicked the knife open, then began cutting the ropes around my wrist.

"So...back at the Legion playground, pussycat, I told you we weren't even. I guess I did do good on my word after all." He paused in cutting to pull out a silk handkerchief, and gently wiped the blood from my mouth and nose. "That'll do for now, but Benny baby's got just the thing for you back at the Cat's."

"The...?"

"Business later, pleasure now, mama," he responded, tossing the handkerchief and making it through the last of the ropes. In a very un-Boone-like manner, the black-haired man embraced me, wrapping his arms around me lovingly while simultaneously helping me stand. I only swayed slightly, and cringed at the pain in my head. Making a face at my swollen, busted lip, Benny instead opted to very tenderly plant a hello kiss on my neck, causing me to turn crimson.

"You okay? Banged up too much to walk?"

"Benny...where are we?"

"About a five minute hop from my new HQ. You'll be getting the grand tour, but not til we clean you up, you look rotten kiddo."

"Thanks."

"Hey...you know the Ben don't mean it like that."

He motioned to one of the Chairmen, who obligingly picked up Boone's beret, brushing the dust off of it and handing it to me. I adjusted the hat, brushing the Platinum Chip comfortingly, and Benny extended me his elbow. I slid my arm through his, and surrounded by the stoic, crack-shot Chairmen, we walked down the canyonside and left the bodies of the Omertas to rot in the unforgiving desert sun. 


	40. 40 Trouble at King's Casa

Boone and Arcade entered the King's headquarters, both men shifting their eyes uneasily in the filtered sunlight of the room. Rex was at their side, whining uneasily. He'd been acting strange ever since Boone found him this morning, outside the New Vegas gate, pacing, unable to re-enter without a master. Both men knew where the Courier had been the night before, and though it seemed unlikely that she would return to the King's HQ after a hard night drinking, they both hoped she was there and not somewhere else. Neither man knew the King very well, but they knew he adored the Courier and would look after her if things had gotten too wild at the party.

Boone dragged his feet as Arcade walked purposefully in front, entering the large side room with a stage. The King was there, and Rex left Boone's side to romp to him gleefully, for the moment, his bad mood forgotten. The black-haired man had been sitting at the table looking rather hung over, and winced, laughing, as the cyberdog assaulted him. "Down, boy! Boy, it sure is good to see you too, look at how raggedy you are, you old mutt," and then the doting gang leader noticed the two men: Arcade, amiable but pressed, Boone, brooding.

"How can I help you gentlemen? You missed one hell of a party last night." The King lazily patted Rex, reclining in his chair, offering Boone and Arcade a spot at his table. Both men accepted, Boone looking rather hesitant.

"Is your girl back at the room recoverin, or somethin'?" The King asked of the two. "Didn't think she had all that much to drink."

Now Arcade and Boone exchanged a look.

"Actually," Arcade began, "We were hoping you knew where she was. She never came back last night."

Now the King's eyebrows rose. "Really? She didn't hang around the Wrangler...last I saw of her she was sayin' her goodbyes to a few of my boys..." Now he raised his hand and with two fingers, called several Kings over. The black-jacketed men approached, most of the others in the room and their leader asked, "Any of you fellas see where the little blond lady went to last night?"

The men pondered-one of them, whom the Courier had gotten to know earlier in the month, and had become familiar with, contributed, "She told me right as she walked out that she was tired, wanted to go back to the casino. The Lucky 38."  
"I thought she went north, too?"  
Among the murmurings, a snort was heard in one of the back corners, where Pacer, not realizing how well his voice carried to the King's table, murmured something about "about time the bitch got carried off." The other King, whom he was talking to, looked worriedly over at the King's table. Pacer drawled on. "Good enough that the Omertas did it too, sick fucks."

"You ...saw her?" the younger, skittish King asked, uncertain. Arcade turned in his seat.

"Hell yeah I did," Pacer's low voice was nonetheless audible, and he snorted again. "Watched 'em haul her ass outta Freeside, knocked her cold."

Then the only sound was the violent scrape of chair against floor as Boone flew across the room, impossibly fast. Though Pacer was at least ten feet from the dingy wooden wall, the large sniper was on him in no time, grabbing him by the neck and all but slamming him against the side of the structure. Pacer's feet kicked madly; he was over a foot off the ground, pinned by Boone's hand around his throat. He gagged violently.

"You watched someone drag her out of town and didn't stop them?" Boone said, his tone now uncannily strained and deathly. Pacer, of course, tried shaking his head but couldn't move it.

"Hey, hey!" The King said, stepping up to Boone. Rex snarled and moved to protect Boone. In a flash, the ex-NCR's free hand held his pistol, and he pointed it to the white jacket. The man threw his arms up in surrender, but every other pistol in the room was drawn and trained on Boone. Arcade likewise pulled out his gun, ready to defend Boone, panning his raised weapon among the sea of black.

"Whoa now, calm down boy," the King said. "Nobody wants this to turn ugly. Let's talk."

The drawl the King possessed, as well as his peaceful nature, seemed to soothe a chord in everyone, even Boone apparently, for the glaring man lowered his gun. The Kings were less happy to lower arms, until the King himself gave the signal. The tension in the room was thick, and Pacer was near loss of consciousness.

"I ain't happy about what happened either," the King beseeched Boone, "but you gotta let my boy down so we can all smooth this out." His hands were still out, palm up in a surrender gesture. After a moment's pause, Boone finally pushed hard, slamming Pacer's head into the wall and then stepping back as the kid fell like a rag doll to the floor below.

Before anyone else could even speak, the King sidestepped Boone and hauled up Pacer by his shirt collar. He shook him to his feet, then yelled, "What in God's name is your problem? The Omertas on our grounds knockin' out a woman and draggin' her off, on our grounds? I don't care man, if you don't like her, it don't matter...that ain't how the Kings run Freeside," and with this, the King let Pacer go. The young man looked miserable, both at the humiliation he just suffered and at the King's disdainful shake of the head. "I don't know what you want to do with yourself, Pacer, but you gotta' get with it. This ain't the time."

Boone was still staring menacingly at the young man. Arcade exhaled deeply. The enigmatic King caught this gesture and clapped Arcade on the shoulder. "Don't worry man, we got eyes and ears. Let's have us an investigation for the whereabouts of Miss Blondie. 


	41. Edit: Please read

Hello everyone.

Due to lack of time, I've decided (for now) to stop uploading chapters to this story.

However, since so many of you seem to like it, I'll give you the link to read the full story.

My one request is that you get a dA account (if you don't already have one) and leave me some feedback. I will always respond, and the feedback really helps.

Enjoy the 200 chapters and random flash fics that await you.

Link to my dA:

take out the spaces

leon kennedy is god. deviant art. com

Link to the journal with the full fanfiction:

again, take out all spaces:

leon kennedy is god. deviant art. com /journal/I-Am-Tired-and-Stink-of-War-227429252

(if this site is a dick and doesn't show you, I'll be posting it on my profile/bio anyway so you can click there. 


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